


To Wake Their Ashes into Pain

by LeilaKalomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Confused Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Loneliness, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Oscar Wilde Trials, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Oscar Wilde, Rimming, Trust Issues, no abuse between Aziraphale and Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 132,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21853423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: After a long period of silence from Heaven, Aziraphale begins a tentative friendship and then a passionate romance with Crowley. When he finds himself in Heaven again unexpectedly, how will Heaven react? And if he manages to find his way back to Earth, can things ever be the same again?This fic has angst, smut, history (including Oscar Wilde), the Apocalypse (including a correctly delivered Antichrist), and more.
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Oscar Wilde, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Harriet Dowling, Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Crowley (Good Omens) & Oscar Wilde, Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 261
Kudos: 273
Collections: Good  but with mature themes, Good Omens (Complete works), Tip Top Stories





	1. I Never Said I Knew Him (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You are the rudest person I ever met,” said the Rocket, “and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince.”
> 
> “Why, you don't even know him,” growled the Roman Candle. 
> 
> “I never said I knew him,” answered the Rocket. “I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one's friends.”
> 
> —From “The Remarkable Rocket” by Oscar Wilde

It is not possible to summon demons. Aziraphale would know if it were. The angels, for one, would know what it is possible to inflict upon a demon, what it is possible to extract from them. And Aziraphale has read everything the humans have to say on the matter, has tried much of it over the years, though he knows on sight that it is all nonsense. Demons can not be controlled by humans. Or angels.

It is 1343, and Aziraphale, angel, Principality, formerly Guardian of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden, and currently monk and scribe at Dunstable Priory, has not seen the demon Crowley for more than fifty years.

They are not friends, not exactly. But since coming to a kind of agreement several centuries before, it has not been this long since they’ve communicated, and it has an oddly isolating effect, the lack of communication. But it’s more than that, even. More than just not having heard from the demon—Aziraphale has the sense that he _could_ not hear from the demon, not even if he tried to reach him first (which he can not bring himself to do), because Aziraphale has the sense that the demon is not there. At least, he has, until now. Now there’s something else...something like a faint presence. Nearby, but barely there, like a whisper. Nothing he can grab on to, nothing he can home in on, even if he dared to use angelic powers to find a demon for nothing more than conversation. He shouldn’t care, he knows, shouldn’t have those thoughts, those feelings. What does it matter to him where a demon is, if he doesn’t know of any trouble the demon is causing that he need prevent?

It is hot in Aziraphale’s cottage during the day, though cold and drafty at night. He likes to work through the hottest part of the day, ignoring the sounds of the village children at the nearby river, then take an early evening walk, when things are a bit cooler and quieter. The other monks think him odd. He allows this—it encourages them to keep their distance. He ventures out this day, even though it is raining. The children likely playing near their homes or working indoors, for he sees none of them. The gloom is ominous to humans, he supposes, but Aziraphale likes the rain.

He has come to spread literacy, to build in the village a library of holy books, but he has found the work difficult. The villagers and even the monks and clergy seem resistant, treating the books carelessly, borrowing and losing them, ripping pages from them. Most of the villagers are illiterate, and could, perhaps be forgiven, but even the monks and the priest and abbot seem to view the books as dispensible, as long as they have their Bibles and hymnals. Burn the blasphemous tomes, they say, and assign anything else to that category. Aziraphale has been sent to enlighten the priest. He spends most of his time hand-lettering new bibles, bibles he has nudged just a little closer to the truth. It does no good.

As he steps closer to the River Flit, he feels a sense of dread that has nothing to do with the way his feet sink into the mud. He sighs, feet squelching, and looks around, thinking to miracle the mud away from his feet and robe if no one is watching, and then he sees it, something pale in the water, nestled against the bank. Another monk closer to it, edges on to the bank and bends down, pulls at it. An arm, a person. And then Aziraphale feels it like the sky has landed on his chest. Not a person—not a _human_ , at least: _Crowley_.

The man, Brother Aleric, pulls the demon’s body from the river, naked and battered. He looks dead, but Aziraphale knows he isn’t, can feel his presence, so he’s not surprised when there’s a spasm of his body, and his eyes open for a moment. He emits a loud, dangerous hiss. Brother Aleric drops him, and scrambles back, falling into the mud. Aziraphale runs toward the scene. So do several other monks. As he approaches, he can see that Crowley’s body is, by human standards, sterile, blank. That is, there’s nothing where a person would think there ought to be something. The exposure is as much a violation as if there _had_ been something, and he wants to cover the demon, wants to protect his acquaintance from this. Aleric has not, even in his fear, failed to register the absence. Aziraphale blinks. They gawk at the demon, who has gone still again., mud and something darker now caked in his normally shining hair.

“Stand aside,” he says, pushing through the other monks, who are bent over the thin, spent figure.

“Don’t touch it!” shouts Brother Aleric. “It—it’s a demon or some spirit or—”

Aziraphale ignores them, bends over Crowley, places a hand on his cool forehead. Aleric backs away, shaking. Another monk pulls on Aziraphale’s arm, but he lets go quickly, without knowing why. Crowley’s eyes open, just a little, as they must have done when Brother Aleric had seen him, the irises full and yellow, pupils slitted from top to bottom. It’s enough for the other monks, they pull or scurry away, shaking.

“ ’ziraphale?”

Aziraphale nods and brushes his hand over Crowley’s face, hoping to comfort him. The demon’s eyes fall closed again. Crowley’s body and face are covered with bruises and cuts, and his arm hangs away from him at a strange angle. There are bruises all over his neck, as if someone has tried to choke him, and blood in his hair. Aziraphale lifts the filthy, bloody demon into his arms, carefully, cradling him against his body. He forgets to struggle under the weight, and they stare.

“Brother Francis!” one of them shouts. “No! Francis! It’s not a man, nor a woman. Not a person at all, but something possessed.”

“The demon knows him!”

“Leave this to me,” Aziraphale says, stilling Crowley’s head against his chest without pressing into the wound. “Stand _aside_.” The other monks part for him, making a path, afraid to let Crowley too close. One of them runs ahead, probably to warn the abbot, Aziraphale thinks. The abbot, Father Albert, is a veritable idiot. Perhaps Aziraphale ought to make them forget what they’ve seen, before there’s even more trouble, but when he looks down at Crowley, wet, unconcious, shivering, and bloody, he forgets everything else. It has been more than fifty years, and Aziraphale has missed the demon, but never thought he’d find him like this. They are not friends, but they have known each other for thousands of years, been business associates of a certain sort for the last eight hundred or so. And there isn’t much that can do this to a demon.

As a scribe, and something of an oddity himself, Aziraphale has his own cottage, really more of a hut, and he takes Crowley inside it, and lies him down on the straw-stuffed mattress he never uses. He wants to cover Crowley, but now that it’s just the two of them, it’s more important to heal the demon. He’s not even sure it’s possible, but now it all makes sense, that faint sense of his presence even though it had seemed so near. Crowley, half-choked, beaten, nearly drowned, alive only because even in their human bodies, they can withstand so much more than a human can. He had suffered so much. Aziraphale feels tears stream down his face, and he trails his hands over the larger, more insignificant wounds, the cuts and bruises, imagining the cruelty that had led to this, the suffering the demon had endured. When he sees that the wounds do heal at his direction, that his ethereal miracles do no damage to the occult being, he fixes the broken bones, the damaged windpipe and lungs, moves his hand carefully into the bloody, tangled hair last of all, so that when Crowley wakes, he will know no pain, no alarm. Then he turns, rummaging in a trunk for a blanket to cover him until he wakes.

There’s a cough, a splutter, a splash, and he looks around to find Crowley sitting up, spitting water out of his mouth, coughing again. When Aziraphale stands with the blanket, Crowley puts out a hand as if to stop him from approaching. Aziraphale waits.

“Angel,” Crowley sputters, his voice little more than a rasp.

“Shh. Don’t try to talk.” Aziraphale wraps the blanket over his shoulders. Crowley makes no motion to hide himself, but he does draw the blanket over his chest. Aziraphale sits beside him, places a hand on his back, directs more of the healing energy toward him. Crowley stills. When Aziraphale feels him growing steadier, sees the color returning to his skin, he withdraws his hand.

“I’ll make a fire,” Aziraphale says. He stands and goes to the fireplace, casting about for kindling. Crowley, behind him, makes a sudden motion and Aziraphale draws back, letting out a little shout as flames leap into being.

“Relax, angel. It’s not hellfire,” Crowley says. “You think I would—? You saved me.”

Aziraphale stands up again, gives a little huff. “Are you going to tell me what happened to get you in this state? Do you know that you—” he sighs, softening, “You nearly discorporated, my dear.”

“I _do_ know. And you wept for me,” Crowley says, smirking. “The _poor_ innocent demon flogged and driven out of Pulloxhill.”

“Oh, stop, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t meet the demon’s eyes. He wasn’t supposed to know about that, to have seen, and anyway, what had happened wasn’t something to make light of. “Pulloxhill? Is that what happened? You don’t know what...they were...the other monks, they found you first. I had to get you away from them. You gave them quite a scare with your serpent routine and your…” Aziraphale gestures at Crowley vaguely, pinching his lips as he tries to speak delicately. “You might consider _making an effort_. There isn’t a human in all of creation so...sexless. It might make things a bit easier on you.”

“Oh, _really_? Have _you_ done then?” Crowley asks, leaning forward, oddly arch for someone who’d nearly been discorporated.

“Well, not so much here. I mean, in general, only if I think I might be spotted. Remember Rome? The baths?” Aziraphale remembers the baths. He’d gone to them on several occasions before spotting Crowley in Rome. He’d made the effort nearly the whole time he’d been there because he so enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the baths. And then Crowley had come, and they’d been almost giddy after their ale and oysters; it was the first time they’d really spent any time together. And then they’d gone to the baths together. It had probably not been a good idea, all that time together, but Aziraphale remembered that the notion had been his own. He had assumed Crowley had made the effort there, too, but he hadn’t really known. They hadn’t _looked_ at each other like that, hadn’t touched at all. Aziraphale had been careful because he’d been drunk. He’d enjoyed the warm water and the conversation. He hadn’t enjoyed the confusion he’d suddenly felt, sitting there with Crowley, trying to keep his eyes up. It felt like there were extra layers on top of everything, or underneath, perhaps? So when they left, after they’d parted ways, he’d returned his body to normal and sobered up. Not long after that, he’d left Rome. Here in the monastery, he had enough privacy that it hadn’t been an issue.

Now Crowley smirks.

“But _I’ve_ never been stripped and publicly flogged,” Aziraphale says, primly.

“Wasn’t _stripped_ , angel,” Crowley says. He sighs, falling back against the pillow again. “It just _happened_. Water and all. You may be right about...well, but then, most of them never get past the eyes.” It’s surprisingly honest, and when has Crowley ever just conceded like that? Aziraphale feels sorry for the demon suddenly, unable to hide his difference, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just waits, watching him. Perhaps he ought to offer ale or food, or—?

“So, monks? Is that really what you’re doing? Bit on the nose, isn’t it? Bet I did give _them_ a fright,” Crowley says, in his usual disaffected tone. But then he shivers.

“Clothes!” Aziraphale says. And it really has not occurred to him until now that he ought to offer this.

Crowley shakes his head, and miracles a black robe, almost identical to Aziraphale’s; it’s what the Franciscans wear. “It’s all right, angel. I’m all right now.” He leans back against the pillow. “Terrible bed,” he says. “What is this, sawdust and straw?” When Aziraphale doesn’t respond to this, Crowley says, “So tell me why you’re a monk.”

It does not escape Aziraphale’s notice that Crowley has not yet answered his question. But the demon is lying there, looking tired and expectant. So Aziraphale studies him, sighs with sympathy, and begins.

* * *

It’s certainly not by choice that Aziraphale is here. The truth is, he finds the whole thing a bit distasteful. Embarrassing, even, all the talk of praise and glorification, all the _strictures_. But Heaven says the place is on a bleak path, that they require intervention to keep the entire monastery, the associated parish, and indeed, quite possibly (depending on free will factors) the whole of the surrounding area, from being claimed for Hell. Perhaps he shouldn’t explain this to Crowley, but then again, if he does, perhaps Crowley can explain some things to him.

The problem is the abbot, Father Albert. He has developed an interest in the occult, believes that through (his own) extraordinary devotion, it is possible to summon and control dark forces. More specifically, demons. And though he does not advertise his views publicly, Aziraphale suspects he has spread them to some of the other monks, and other clerics in the area. Meanwhile, the library of holy books has gone largely ignored, with some of the books closest to the actual gospel declared heresy, and many of the books routinely stolen and vandalized by the frequent travelers and nearby villagers, many of whom cannot read and know only that heretics frequent the monastery’s library. This last problem, perhaps, is not exactly the problem Aziraphale has been sent to deal with, but it’s the only one he’s made any progress at solving, spending most of his day, tidying the library and copying over and rebinding damaged books with blessings tucked in...only to have many of them stolen again, sometimes immediately. And the abbot ignores him, doesn’t seem interested in any of his friendly overtures, and actually argues with him when he tries to guide him down a different philosophical road. The assignment is...well, it’s miserable really.

He’s embarrassed to tell Crowley, who is lying very still on his bed, wrapping the blanket more closely around him, eyes closed as Aziraphale finishes filling him in.

“Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were listening.”

“I’m listening, angel. Just still hurts a bit, you know?”

Aziraphale stands up, goes to the bed and stands there awkwardly, hesitating a moment before he sits down beside him. The demon opens his eyes.

“Where...does it hurt?” he asks, hesitant. If Above sensed too many miracles at once, they were bound to look closer, and he couldn’t let them find this. It would look even worse than it was, would be completely impossible to explain.

Crowley narrows his eyes. “ _Stop_ it,” he says. “I’m fine. I told you. It’s just going to take a bit.”

Aziraphale nods. “I was afraid it wouldn’t work,” he says. “When I tried to heal you.”

Crowley gives him a lazy grin. “I wasn’t,” he says. “I knew you’d help.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. What? Had he come here deliberately, then? “You _knew_? How—”

“Used my last strength to get here,” Crowley says. “I didn’t know if it would work. I didn’t know where you were, but I guess I was lucky. All I had to do was float, really. They’d done the hard part.”

“The...hard part?”

“Knocking me out and throwing me into the river.”

Aziraphale gasps. It’s not that it’s so surprising, exactly, more the tone of voice with which Crowley says it, like it’s nothing, paired with the _immediacy_. And something else, something that feels like a confession that underlies his words.

“Will you tell me?” Aziraphale says. “What happened...where you’ve been? I did wonder.”

He hates himself for the admission, waits for Crowley’s smug little smile. But it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a sensation at his wrist—Crowley’s hand is there, fumbling, gripping his arm, just for a moment, and Crowley nods without lifting his head.

“All right, angel. I owe you that much.”

* * *

Crowley is not enjoying the fourteenth century. Not at all. Right at the start of it, he’d been thrown from a horse on the way to get trouble stirred up near some loch in Scotland. He’d ended up down a cliff the fog had kept him from knowing was there. Before he had time to react, his head smashed into a rock and he discorporated on the spot, waking up in a damp, dirty corner of Hell, where he is greeted with laughter, with hands on his collar, pulling him to his feet.

“Crowley,” Beelzebub says, sneering. “Welcome home.” They throw him back down and stalk off. As he scrambles to get up again, still a bit dizzy, Dagon throws a full ream of papers at him, nearly pinning him down with its weight. “Fill it out,” she says. “We’ve got to have someone up there.”

“I’ll go,” comes a low voice. Hastur. Crowley looks around at him, at the eyes like dark, murky pools, the pale, wet skin. _No_ , Crowley thinks. _No, please_.

“Fine,” says Dagon. “Just until he’s ready to go back.”

Crowley takes the papers and stalks down the hall, kicking at demons who grab at his feet, at his arms, his _hips_ , pulling at him, running their hands over his form and calling him pretty boy, saying what they think ought to be done to him, what they’d like to do. He hates it here, hates it so much.

The papers take forever to fill out, and he knows they won’t even look at them. The questions they ask, the futility of it all—that’s part of the Hellish experience, and he never understands why it always feels like this to him, like he’s on the other side when he’s here, like he’s not a part of Hell at all, no matter how much he tries to stay off the radar, to tick enough of their boxes to keep everyone appeased. But he’s not like these people and he doesn’t want to be. When he finally finishes, he takes the papers back to Dagon and without a word she recorporates him, sends him back to take over from Hastur.

It’s been forty years on Earth, and Hastur is...well. He’s Hastur. Crowley emerges outside of his latest playground, a cottage at the edge of a little village near a river somewhere in southern England. He goes inside and immediately turns around and comes back out. Hastur’s got a family in there, a whole room surrounded by fire, and he’s standing there in a darkness he’s created, laughing at them. Crowley concentrates hard from outside on lowering the flames, concentrates hard on knocking Hastur back just slightly, hears the telltale bang from inside. He snaps his fingers, and the door opens, and a man, a woman, and a little girl, run out of their own house. They don’t see Crowley. He knows Hastur will pay him back for this, but he can’t just... And then there he is:

“Why is it you’re still here?” Crowley greets him.

“Because you won’t take over for me _properly_ ,” Hastur says. “Why did you do that—I was just getting to the fun bit.” The flames leap out, towering over the little house. The woman, clutching a little girl, screams, pressing the child’s face to her chest, as she turns and runs.

“Leave,” Crowley says. “This is my domain. Earth. ’S mine.” He pushes at the flames again, but Hastur pushes back.

“Don’t do that,” Hastur says as the frame of the house comes down, sending curls of ash into the air in front of them. “Let me have my fun.”

Crowley shrugs and starts off toward the village. “Don’t walk away from me, Crowley. I can give you _updates_. Bring you up to speed on what you need to know about how to serve our Lord and Master in these _times_.” Crowley sighs. He doesn’t want to tell Hastur about his other contact, the angel Aziraphale, who would bring him _up to speed_ very thoroughly and diligently, probably having kept notes, even, and not make Crowley want to vomit even once while he was doing it (though he would certainly roll his eyes and hurry him along). He doesn’t want Hastur to know anything at all about the angel, doesn’t want Hastur to ever set eyes on him or have a reason to speak his name.

He pours ale out into a cup, because there’s no way he’s putting his mouth on anything Hastur has touched. He downs a fair bit of it; he’ll need to be drunk for this.

“OK. Go,” Crowley says. “Can you be quick about it?”

* * *

Hastur leads Crowley through the village as they talk, Crowley annoyed at how obligated he feels to overturn a few carts here and there as Hastur sets blazes. He’s got to figure out how to get rid of Hastur. In the meantime, he drinks.

They end up a few villages away, in Pulloxhill. Apparently, summoning demons has become quite the thing, and a few of the monastic trainees—Dunstable Priory and Pulloxhill Grange are just down the way—and even some laypeople have taken it up, determined to let the power of the Lord in them control the forces of evil. It’s all utter bullshit, but these idiot villagers don’t seem to realize that.

“What say we give them a bit of a show?” Hastur says.

By now, Crowley’s succeeded at getting properly drunk. The suggestion sounds like the sort of thing he’d do. Bit of a spectacle, bit of chaos. And he can reign Hastur in, if he starts to get too out of control with his bloodlust. Hastur is...disgusting, but he doesn’t really understand Earth, or how temptation works. The worst he ever does is still only a couple of people at a time, and Crowley can stop that. So what they’ll do then, is just pop up when they’re “summoned.” (The actual summoning, of course, has no effect, but the people don’t know that.) And then once they’re there, they’ll just be properly demonic at them for a bit until they realize their mistake. And then Pulloxhill will see that _holiness_ is not something you can wield against a demon, not broadly speaking, anyway. It is, after all, true that they’ll have to be on the lookout for consecration and holy water, etc., of course, but these people are heretics anyway. It probably won’t come to that.

They find the house of the town church’s cleric, and lurk around, _listening_. When they hear it, it’s coming from a house further down the lane, a small group of women and men clustered together over a grimoire. They wait for it, for the final words:

“I summon thee,” and they burst in, cackling. _I summon thee?_ Really?

A few of the people there cower, huddle. But the others look thrilled. One of them sweeps his eyes appreciatively over Crowley. A woman does the same, actually blushing. What do they think is going to happen here? The cleric—Crowley can always tell a cleric—doesn’t look afraid at all.

“Demons of Hell,” he addresses them. _Demons of Hell._ Crowley can’t suppress a drunken snicker. Where else would _demons_ be _of_ , exactly?

“What do you want?” Crowley slurs.

“We command you—bring this village a bounty against the coming winter. In the name of God and all that is holy.” This isn’t terrible, Crowley thinks. These people are pompous all right, and bringing a _bounty_ isn’t exactly his style, but he can respect the sentiment, though not why you’d ask it of agents of Hell, rather than, you know, God and all that. He’d been expecting something more like a request for power, or something stupid, like, a plague on the house of Lord Clarendon or whoever. I mean, they _are demons_.

He’s about to set fire to their grimoire and the Bible they’ve stupidly got sitting right next to it, turn into a snake and slither away, but that’s when it goes completely off the rails. The sky opens up, or rather, outside, it actually clouds over, and there’s no light at all coming in, even from the lantern that had been hanging just outside. The fire flames up, and there’s an eerie red glow suffusing Hastur, radiating out from him.

“We do no one’s bidding!” Hastur says. “You have summoned the forces of Hell. Prepare to get what you deserve.”

 _Oh, shit._ Crowley can hear people in the streets, screaming, banging on the door. It hadn’t taken long at all for this to get completely out of hand. Just leave it to Hastur. He glances at Hastur to suggest winking out, but Hastur is cackling, holding some kind of spear, and running forward. _No,_ Crowley lunges, tries to stop him, but Hastur turns the blade on him, drives it into his side. There’s blood, then pain. A woman screams. Crowley feels dizzy. He tries to reaches out for Hastur’s miracle again, to fold it in, to collapse it, but he _can’t_. The touch of Hastur’s blade, or Hastur himself, maybe, is blocking him somehow. He can’t even heal the wound. Then there’s a blow to his head, from Hastur or one of the villagers, he doesn’t know. He falls back, everything going wobbly and then black. When he awakens, the summoners are dead, blood pouring from each of them in a different, creative way. Crowley feels his human stomach clench, alcohol-tinged bile pouring from his mouth. So that’s what that’s actually like. Vomit.

Hastur is gone, and the door to the house is collapsing. The villagers pour inside, a man out front brandishing a crucifix.

A woman screams at the bodies, but most eyes go immediately to Crowley, the only thing moving, sitting himself up, slumped against a wall. They meet his eyes. He scrambles to stand, to push himself out of being, but he can’t seem to find enough power, can’t grab hold and pull.

“Look at his eyes!” she shouts. “Demon!”

“Demon!” the cries echoing.

Crowley can’t do _anything_ ; they grab him, struggling with him, even though he’s trying to make his skin too hot to touch, to turn himself to a snake, but they’re desperate, they’re terrified but _brave_ , and Crowley is weak _._ One of them, the man with the crucifix, gets his hands around Crowley’s neck, pressing the crucifix into his throat until it pierces the skin, tightening his hold until it hurts and hurts and Crowley can’t even think. He goes limp, hissing, but he can’t transform, and the hissing isn’t helping, though he can’t stop it.

He’s vaguely aware again, just moments later, feels their feet pummelling him, another blow to the head. Another, another. Blood clouding his vision. There’s a crack, and Crowley loses consciousness again, his self threatening to pull away from the body it’s lost control over, but he clings to it, refusing to leave it.

“Burn it!”

“He’s dead.”

“He, Cecilia?”

 _“It_ , then. It’s dead.”

A cheer, a collective sigh of relief.

“I still think we should burn it.”

They don’t, though, instead, he’s pushed, he’s falling. He feels the cold of the water slap at him and close over his head. He concentrates on the current, concentrates on Aziraphale—the angel would help, if he could find him. But he doesn’t know where the angel even is. Doesn’t know what’s possible. Not anymore. His body still isn’t moving, isn’t responding to anything he tries to make it do, and yet...if he concentrates, if he uses the last of his power, he can stay in it. He can’t discorporate again. They might not let him come back.

* * *

Aziraphale studies the demon. He feels a confusing swirl of pity and repugnance overlaying his habitual fondness. “I’m sorry,” he says, after a long pause. “But you must have known that it was foolish of you.”

Crowley just shrugs. He looks chastened.

“I didn’t think he’d do _that_ to me,” Crowley says. _And what about the people_ , Aziraphale thinks. _The people Hastur killed. And the people in the first house—had it burned down? With winter coming?_ But when he looks up, Crowley’s eyes are downcast, like he’s ashamed, like he’d already thought of all that himself, and for a horrifying moment, Aziraphale thinks the demon will cry. He’s felt this feeling before, he realizes, watching the flood wipe out hoards at his own direction, watching Yeshua tortured to his death, and standing back, hands off, because it’s part of the Great Plan.

“Crowley,” he says softly. “It’s not your—”

“Aziraphale. Don’t.” Crowley presses his mouth in a thin line and shakes his head. Aziraphale sighs.

“Hot ale?” he says, finally, pushing a general blessing out toward Pulloxhill. “I was just going to make some myself.”

“Bloody Hell,” Crowley says. “What if I just want to _not_ be drunk for once in my life? I’ve got such a headache.”

“Well, there’s no drinking water. Can’t you just...sober up?” Aziraphale says. “Just...you know?”

Crowley’s face contorts into a picture of outsized confusion; he’s never thought of this. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh gently.

“ _Satan_ , angel,” he says, sounding impressed. “The things you get up to.”

“I’ll help you,” Aziraphale says. “If you need it.” He pours a mug of ale, and when he hands it to Crowley, it’s steaming. He doesn’t heat his own. Better not let Heaven wonder about two identical back-to-back miracles. It’s the sort of thing they’ve asked him about before. The sort of thing that’s likely to make them think something is trivial, and worth further investigation. Or, more likely these days, a red mark in the margin of his report. Or yet another general directive to minimize the use of nonessential miracles; these directives, which form most of the communication he gets from Heaven lately, always make him feel as if he’s doing something wrong, but without reference to what it might be.

Crowley drinks the ale, holding the warm cup against his face, his eyes closing wearily. He doesn’t speak again, and Aziraphale picks up the latest of the supposedly blasphemous tomes preaching love and peace, and, well, a kind of ecstasy that may not be strictly holy, but is mostly harmless, nonetheless. He blesses the pages and begins copying them over.

Crowley doesn’t wake, even when the sun is up. The other monks give Aziraphale a wide berth until after the ceremony when Brother Aleric and Father Albert corner him.

“Brother Francis,” Albert says, in a tone of amused skepticism. “Tell me all about this demon you rescued from the Flit.”

“It is no jest,” Aleric says. “Anyone will tell you. The thing was sexless, and it had the eyes of a snake. It _writhed_ and _hissed_ just like a serpent. But it _knew_ him. Called him a strange name. You heard about what happened up at Pulloxhill. The evil spirit. Perhaps it is the same one.”

“ _Nonsense_ ,” Aziraphale says. “He was completely incoherent, just...babbling. But he’s no demon. Only a man with an unfortunate...condition. He needed assistance. That’s all. He’s sleeping now.”

“That _thing_ was no _man_.”

Father Albert narrows his eyes and fixes them on Aziraphale. “You’ve never seen him before?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how can you be sure you’re not being hoodwinked? Taken in by the charms of the devil.”

“I’m telling you,” Aleric says to Albert. “He’s possessed at least. I’ve never seen anything like—”

“He’s _harmless_ ,” Aziraphale says. “No _charms_ to speak of, I’m afraid, as I’m sure Aleric would agree. But quite ill. Excuse me...I really should tend to him.” He pushes past them, worrying as he makes his way across the grass to his cottage. This could prove a problem. But he can’t blame Crowley, can’t send him out into this before he’s properly recovered. Not when he’s spent the last fifty years wondering what had become of him. _Missing_ him. Because Aziraphale likes Crowley. It’s not something he’s proud of, not something he thinks is in any way all right. Because, yes, Crowley is a demon. But Aziraphale is an angel. Whatever else that might imply, he can’t simply abandon someone in need. Someone who, however inexplicably, trusts him.

He half expected Crowley would be gone. But he’s starting to sit up as Aziraphale opens the door, his long hair miraculously groomed, robe tied and fitting just so. He looks like he should, Aziraphale thinks, like he’s all right. He slumps forward, braces his head on his hands, elbows on his knees, and he’s so thin, all bone and sinew. Aziraphale can’t help but think it must hurt him to press into himself like that.

“Good morning,” he says. “Feeling better?”

“I owe you something,” Crowley says. “Don’t I?”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Come on,” Crowley says, lifting his head. “I know better than to thank you. Let me return the favor. Anything.”

“There really...isn’t anything,” Aziraphale says, shrugging his shoulders as he wrings his hands.

“Come on, Aziraphale. _Nothing_? Oranges, perhaps? _Figs_? _Oysters_? We could...go somewhere. Get you anything you want.”

“I can do that. I can get those things myself.”

“But you _won’t_. Or maybe you just want to keep me in your debt. Save it up for something I don’t want to do and humiliate me, have me completely at your mercy.”

“Oh, you know I wouldn’t—”

But Crowley is smirking. As Aziraphale’s realization makes its way onto his face, the demon laughs and flings himself back onto the bed, his flaming red hair flying up, arm falling over his eyes. Aziraphale has seen Crowley behave without any decorum, of course, but it’s usually felt like it was for show. There’s something unguarded about this, something real and vulnerable that surprises him. Crowley’s not weak, not injured the way he had been, and yet, he’s still so _open_. Even though he’s been mocked, Aziraphale doesn’t want to push him away—it seems like it might hurt. He hesitates, but it’s Crowley who speaks.

“You’re having problems with your books,” he says. “With people trying to use them to summon occult forces.”

“Well, they’re not _my_ books, but broadly speaking, that’s correct. Among other issues.”

“Well,” Crowley sits up. “I’ve got a vested interest in that problem, too, wouldn’t you say?” He locks his eyes on Aziraphale’s. The yellow has retreated to the size of a human iris now, but the slits are still there. Aziraphale looks away. He likes the shape of Crowley’s pupils, has found them disconcerting only occasionally, only when Crowley focuses on him the way he’s doing now. He’s never found them frightening.

“Crowley—I don’t think we ought to revisit that little scheme of yours. You see where it’s brought you.”

“ _Hastur’s_ scheme.”

“Even so.” Aziraphale looks back up at him again.

“Listen, Aziraphale. I could show you some things. There are ways of guarding things. Blessings aren’t always the best way. But when it comes down to it, they work the same way as…” Crowley makes a vague gesture.

“The same way as what?”

“Curses.”

“What? _No._ ”

Crowley shrugs. “You want them to leave the books alone. You want them to keep the books in good condition. Different needs, different curses. Blessings are too broad. You can’t bless a blasphemous book. Or a grimoire. So you bless the library, but then it just draws people in. Or you bless the people, but that doesn’t do anything to actually _deter_ them. I could help you, angel. Show you how to make your job a little easier. Just part of the deal, right? Up to you.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, but even to him, it sounds like, “Convince me.”

* * *

Until vespers, they sit talking in Aziraphale’s room, catching up and drinking ale. Crowley asks Aziraphale to bring him up to speed on the fourteenth century. The century has been a grim one, but Crowley listens to him and basks in the calm, soothing cadences of his voice, the things he says, that familiar mixture of predictability and the completely unexpected lulling and shocking Crowley into occasional loud bursts of laughter. Crowley hates himself for liking the angel this much. But he does. Aziraphale defies categorization, he thinks. Angel. Raving bastard. Kind, petty. Magnanimous and materialistic. Selfish and yet ridiculously thoughtful. It’s wrong, he thinks, and not in the justifiable, demonic way, to want to be his friend. He shouldn’t even need friends, but it’s all right. No one has to know. It’s just their secret— _his_ secret, really, because the angel is just...being an angel—he’s kind on principle; it’s nothing to do with _Crowley_. If Crowley is getting something out of this, if he needs, for his own sake, to pretend they’re friends, well, it’s not hurting anyone. Or, well...maybe it is, if it hurts the angel. But that’s all right, too, isn’t it? He is a demon, after all. (He doesn’t want to hurt the angel, but he doesn’t dwell on that.)

In the evening, when Aziraphale says the other monks are at vespers, or praying alone in their rooms, Crowley miracles himself a pair of dark glasses and follows Aziraphale into the library, illuminated only by the angel’s lantern. “You needn’t worry—it’s not consecrated like a church,” Aziraphale says, quietly. “I think that may be part of the problem.”

Crowley looks around at the stone, the high walls. The books.

“Pick something,” he says. “The place, a shelf, a book?” Aziraphale draws down a beautiful book, vines and roses adorning the spine, a serpent coiled around a huge apple embossed on the front of its wordless leather cover. He smiles almost apologetically as he hands it to Crowley. Crowley stares at it a moment. (“I gave it away!” “You _what_?” He’d known Aziraphale was a live one, then. Had known he was worth something.)

“What do you want me to do to it?” he asks. “Be _specific_.”

“Keep people away from it. The ones who want to use it, anyway. Cover is lovely—enticing, even, but it’s an awful thing. Can you do that? Or is it too antithetical to...temptation?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t think Aziraphale can see it in the dark.

“I can do that,” Crowley says. He rests a hand on the cover ( _lovely? He might have said so, if that word were in his vocabulary, but he’d have hardly expected it from the angel, whose first memory of him couldn’t be a good one_ ) and sends a little pulse through it. He doesn’t need words—this is easy stuff for a demon. He thinks they can both feel it, the repellent the book now emanates. “There,” he says, looking up from the book to find Aziraphale’s eyes on him.

“And it won’t hurt them?” he says.

“Hurt who?”

“If someone...touches it?”

“No one’ll touch it,” Crowley says. “Thought that was the point?”

“ _You’re_ touching it.”

Crowley smirks. He hands the book to Aziraphale, who takes it unthinkingly, then blinks down at it in surprise, perhaps that he _hadn’t_ discorporated, or been scalded or...anything. “See? Set it back on the shelf?” Crowley suggests, voice quiet, pointed. It’s the voice he uses for temptation, but Aziraphale does as he says, shooting him surprised glances through his eyelashes, trying to hide flickering little smiles. He’s pleased, impressed, even. Crowley’s own smile grows under this, stretching out over his whole face, and in the lamplight, one of Aziraphale’s fleeting little looks catches when he realizes Crowley’s looking back, and then they’re both just standing there smiling, Aziraphale looking at Crowley like he’s something worth seeing. _It’s so simple_ , Crowley thinks. And it isn’t really, not always, he knows. But then there are moments like this, and only ever with the angel. _Why isn’t anything else ever this simple?_

“Teach me,” Aziraphale says, his voice resonant with conviction.

Crowley’s heart sings with pride.

* * *

Between the two of them, they curse the whole shelf, all the grimoires in the library that Aziraphale has had time to find. Aziraphale hasn’t checked all the books, though, and he knows that Father Albert has some in his own cottage. And doubtless some of the other monks do too.

It takes him longer than it takes Crowley, works differently for him, because he has to convert his bright miracles into dark things, has to use words to do it, to clarify the specifics of each curse. And when he does, the library feels different, feels... _occult_ , somehow. But not in a bad way, if that makes sense. It’s all in service to the main goal, Aziraphale thinks, it’s...justifiable, and somehow satisfying. He’s almost giddy with the novelty of it, after so much boredom for so many years, and he’s in high spirits when he says, “Let’s have some more ale now. I think I can...go forward from here tomorrow.”

“You’re a quick study, angel,” Crowley says, smiling. And he looks impressed. Aziraphale bites his lip, looking away. He likes this, these smiles that make him feel included, instead of Crowley’s usual guarded smirks. They’ve been rare things before tonight. He thinks of Crowley leaving, which of course he’ll do soon, and pushes the thought away, unwanted thing that it is.

Back in the cottage, Aziraphale heats the whole jug and they drink, the warm ale coursing through Aziraphale’s body, making him feel comforted and soft. When he thinks of returning to his work, to his solitude, it marks such a contrast from how he feels now that he nearly despairs. Because Crowley can’t stay, they both know it. It’s not wise for him to be at a monastery, not wise for them to be in this kind of proximity for too long, in case someone checks, and…

Then Crowley stands up. “Well,” he says. “I need to get to it,” he says. “Souls to tempt and all. Wouldn’t want Hell to find me here. I’d have to tell them you’d caught me. Held me against my will.” He laughs. But Aziraphale does not. Crowley frowns at him. He takes a long drink, draining his mug and sets it down. Aziraphale hesitates, then gets to his feet, his heart pounding.

“See you around, angel,” Crowley says, starting for the door, but Aziraphale is closer to it. He presses a hand against the door, blocking the demon’s path. Crowley blinks at him and stands back. “Angel?” There’s a tinge of fear in Crowley’s uncertainty. No, no. Aziraphale makes his voice gentler, careful.

“Crowley,” he says. “Wait. Stay here with me for a bit?”

The demon raises an eyebrow. “In a monastery,” he says.

But Aziraphale doesn’t let himself stop to think. This makes sense, it does. It has to.

“There are plenty of people here,” he reminds Crowley. “Plenty of things for you to...do. You could help me. Tempt people. It might be fun, like it was tonight?”

“Aziraphale—if your people—or _my people—”_

“You could be my…prisoner.” He smiles; he knows how to look at Crowley, with a plea in his eyes, with need and knowledge of entitlement, to get him to go along, to help him. “Please?”

He holds the look. This could go any number of ways, Aziraphale is aware. He could alienate Crowley, could scare him off with his recklessness, with the genuine feeling behind this request. But he’s careful with his facial expressions, letting it show only his usual distant (he hopes) friendliness, collegiality, unapologetic self-righteousness. It’s a business arrangement: He needs to protect his books, accomplish _something_ , so Heaven will let him leave. Crowley needs people to tempt. Neither of them want to…be alone. Well, perhaps that last is best not said.

Crowley quirks a half-smile. “Your _prisoner_ ,” he says. “In a monastery. Not really the traditional place for a prisoner, angel. Or—well—”

“If they ask. Anyone from Above or Below. We could say I kept you against your will. That I captured you or what...whatever you like. Or—or even that you decided to stay and corrupt...right at the source. Undermine me. Yes, that’s better, I think, for your purposes. I’ll tell the abbot that I’ve taken you on as my...my assistant. Or apprentice, or…servant or what have you.”

But Crowley doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t say no. He doesn’t grin with relish. Instead, he frowns a little, his brow pinching, like he’s shocked and confused but considering it. He leans toward Aziraphale. “ _Angel_ , it _was_ fun tonight. I...but, _really_? You’re asking me, a demon, to stay at a church, a monastery. Are you _sure_?”

Aziraphale blinks at him. Isn’t Crowley supposed to be all for temptation? Isn’t he supposed to be the one tempting Aziraphale, not making him question himself when he’s suggesting something that may not be strictly _holy_. But it’s for a good cause. It’s in the service of Heaven, ultimately. And Aziraphale got the words out; now he needs to be resolute.

“No. I...well, yes. Unless you think I shouldn’t.” Well, so much for that. Aziraphale wrings his hands.

“ _Me_? Demon here, Aziraphale. Are you really asking _me_ what I think you should do?” Crowley is leaning toward him almost aggressively now. But it’s not threatening. At least, _Crowley_ isn’t. Something is. Something that looms over him, filling him up with an emptiness so bleak he feels as if he can’t breathe. Aziraphale forces himself to, though, takes a deep breath. He imagines Crowley leaving. Not seeing him again for another fifty years. Worrying something’s happened to Crowley again. Talking to these people who don’t want to listen to him. Combing uselessly through these books, blessing people who will throw the blessings off immediately, blessing the library so it draws people in, only to be corrupted, to turn the Church into a tool for evil while he putters on endlessly, Heaven ignoring him except to ask why he’s so ineffectual even though they’re the ones who’ve crippled him. They were clear at the start of this that they won’t let him miracle the books out of existence (and he doesn’t want to, not really); they won’t let him _adjust_ the thinking of these people, won’t let him go where now the Plague is killing people, where he can save lives. Not until this is finished. And he so needs this to be finished.

He knows what he ought to do, knows what he _has_ to do. And it _is_ , for once, the same thing he wants to do. So he says, “I want you to stay. I want you to help me with this. Won’t you?”

Crowley looks confused for a moment, squinting at Aziraphale. Then he softens. “All right,” he says. “Of course I will. Yes. Anything you like, right? That’s what I said.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, suddenly even more nervous. “I didn’t mean that you—”

“No, angel. But I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale doesn’t look at him now. He nods. Crowley will stay. This should not make him so happy.

* * *

Crowley feels something slippery and fleeting twist inside of him. _Serpent_ , he thinks, inexplicably, disgusted with himself. That’s what he is, something slippery and twisted. He doesn’t want to leave, but he ought to, ought to leave the angel alone before he ruins him somehow. Does Aziraphale already regret it? He’d recognized that tone Aziraphale had spoken in. It was one of the many _he_ used when he wanted to tempt someone. The one he used when he thought they might try a little harder to resist. And then there was that diffidence, the uncertainty that meant the angel was fighting with himself to ask this; diffidence like that, well, it’s the kind of thing a demon knows how to hear. An indicator of susceptibility. A signal that they just need one more little _push_. But this is Aziraphale. An angel. _The_ angel, as far as Crowley is concerned. Crowley doesn’t want to do that to _him_. Unless...

Aziraphale looks up at him, smiling again, his eyes clear and untroubled and _knowing_. And then Crowley is smiling too. Because it’s all right. They couldn’t _both_ want it if it wasn’t.


	2. I Never Said I Knew Him (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Have some angst.
> 
> cw: Violence, homophobia, and related slight non-con elements. (NOT between Aziraphale and Crowley.) It's not especially traumatizing in and of itself, but it is in a violent, traumatic context, and I do want people to be aware that it's here. This is probably the worst instance of it in this fic, so if you can stand this, it's probably OK to read the rest of it.

_May the sword of anathema slay,_

_If anyone steals this book away._

Aziraphale whispers the words as he traces them into the cover of the book with his fingers.

Beside him, Crowley sits at the desk, illuminating a manuscript, his clever, deft hand working smooth, swirling shapes in bright colors into lovely works of decorative art in the margins of Aziraphale’s undecorated copies.

It’s autumn, and Crowley has been with him for almost two months now, the two of them spending almost all of their time together, except for prayers in the church. Crowley does not attend prayers, of course. Aziraphale makes his excuses, tells them that his apprentice, the invalid Aleric had fished from the river, is reclusive and still recovering. It’s useful; it explains Crowley keeping his head down, his eyes covered. Explains Crowley keeping close to Aziraphale, not speaking to the others unless absolutely necessary. Explains his odd, swaying walk, the fact that he appears to be unmarried, unmoored, an apprentice to Aziraphale, despite appearing to be the same age. It doesn’t explain why they have never called for a doctor, why Crowley doesn’t take communion or receive any post. Aziraphale deflects these questions as well as he can without using too many miracles, but they invariably crop up again.

And it’s hard sometimes, making excuses, averting questions. Aleric is ever suspicious where Crowley is concerned, and now where Aziraphale is, as well, and Albert isn’t inclined to dismiss Aleric out of hand. Aziraphale feels nervous sometimes, when he thinks about it. What would he do if they came for Crowley? If they came now, and demanded he attend services, or worse, if they waited until Aziraphale was gone and beat him and stripped him and dragged him into the sanctuary? If they insisted on blessing him, on baptising him with holy water, or making him take holy orders?

He tries not to leave Crowley alone, knows that he would risk miracles the size of the Resurrection to save him, but that only works if he’s there. And Aziraphale is so glad he’s there that he can hardly believe in the events that led them to this surprising detente; thinks he might have gone mad without the company of a real peer if Crowley hadn’t come, which he very nearly hadn’t.

It’s nice having him there, sleeping in (and complaining about) Aziraphale’s otherwise unused bed as Aziraphale works on his lettering through the night. The two of them taking hot ale together to get warm, talking about their work, about the humans, about bureaucracy and time and space and philosophy and feeling. It’s nice not being alone, being understood, being properly seen for what he is—an angel, Aziraphale—not Brother Francis, a bumbling, incompetent monk and scribe. It’s nice having someone there who sees humans the way he does, or close enough: at a remove, appreciating their innovation and determination, the goodness they’re capable of, while also seeing their flaws, their fear and stubbornness and weakness in the face of bodily temptations and desires. And it’s nice getting to _know_ Crowley, to find out what’s there, really, in a demon, and that it’s not so different from what’s in an angel. At least not if the two of them are the models you use for each.

And the nicer it is, the more terrible, because Crowley’s _there_ , on monastic grounds, not even two hours walk from Pulloxhill, and the news of the demon they found and killed after their cleric summoned him _has_ spread. And Father Albert is no less interested now than he had been before the Pulloxhill incident, in controlling the forces of Hell. In fact, now, he’s almost bent on it. He leaves services in the hands of the other monks, and spends every moment he’s not on official business cloistered, burying himself in grimoires he seems to think Aziraphale won’t notice missing from the library. Aziraphale wants to ask Gabriel—is _Heaven_ really still set on Albert, on this awful place? Because it seems to him pretty far gone already. And as far as he’s concerned, if Hell wants to take Albert, they can have him. It is what the abbot has sought. And if he really won’t repent, then perhaps it’s better sooner than later, so he doesn’t take more down with him. Aziraphale knows this thought is wrong, that Albert could change at any moment, that it’s his duty, still, to bring about that change. But it feels so futile when Albert will barely even listen to anything he has to say, when he spends their weekly dinners alone (his audience hard won during Aziraphale’s first, hopeful weeks at the monastery) lecturing Aziraphale, cutting him off when he tries to speak, and expressing his displeasure at the state of the library, the sheer number of books of “blasphemy,” and of course, Brother Francis’s demonic, effeminate apprentice (“How much longer will you need his _services_?”).

He sets the freshly cursed book on the shelf, and turns to Crowley. It will be only an hour before the monks assemble for their midday meal, and it’s best for Crowley if they avoid it, if they eat first. He rests his hands on the edges of Crowley’s manuscript, and the demon puts down his pen, and looks up.

“May whoever steals this book, or mutilates it, be cut off from the body of the church and held as a thing accursed,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley’s lips twitch, turning up into a smile. “Ooh. Careful, angel,” he says. “This is one of the good ones.”

“Well, yes. That’s why I’m protecting it. We wouldn’t want your work to go to waste, my dear. Now. What about some lunch?” he asks.

* * *

“Shouldn’t you eat with them?” Crowley says, biting into the hard bread, and talking around it, ignoring Aziraphale’s wince at his lack of manners. “I mean, at least sometimes. Don’t want to raise suspicions.” It’s been more than a week now, since Aziraphale took the midday meal with his supposed fellows, and Crowley sees they way they look at him, the way they look at the two of them together. He doesn’t know how to warn Aziraphale about this, doesn’t want to see the angel’s face contort with horror and disgust.

“Suspicions of what?” Aziraphale says, laughing. “I don’t want to leave you alone. You know what they’ll do.”

Crowley isn’t sure he does. The way he sees it, it could go a few different ways, depending on which of his many problematic attributes they seize on. And they all end with humans hurt, all end with Aziraphale gaping at him, crying, begging him to go away because he’s finally returned to his senses and sees what an awful, crawling thing Crowley is. He’d go, though. He’d go and leave the angel alone. Probably ought to even now. It’s just that Aziraphale doesn’t want him to.

It’s just that Crowley is happy. Happier than he’s ever been. But he shouldn’t be, not like this. Not at a monastery, surrounded by holy books and fucking grimoires, with the angel hovering around him nearly every moment. He knows it can’t last.

“I’m not afraid of them, Aziraphale,” he says. “I can handle myself.”

“Oh, of course. I know you can,” Aziraphale says. “But I think we’d both rather it didn’t come to that.” Aziraphale bites into a small brown pear Crowley has no idea how he got. He eats it neatly, but with relish, sucking up the juices before they stain his robe. There isn’t much good food here. He hasn’t seen Aziraphale enjoy anything for a long time, and he remembers Rome, and oysters.

“How did you—?” he begins. “I thought it was _frivolous_.”

There’s a pause. Aziraphale sets down the core of the pear on one of the tin plates they’d brought to the library. He frowns, not looking at Crowley, then he hesitates.

“Angel?” Crowley says. Aziraphale presses his eyes closed.

“Heaven hasn’t given me any direction,” he says. He sighs. “They don’t even answer my questions. I just get warnings, questions about miracles, all my reports sent back with things circled, requests for ‘greater clarification.’ I feel always as if I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” His voice breaks. _Oh, G-Satan._ Crowley hadn’t known, hadn’t really understood that it was like this. He reaches out and touches the angel’s hand. It’s awkward because he doesn’t do this, doesn’t even really know how to, but Aziraphale turns his warm hand over beneath Crowley’s inkstained one and grasps it. He holds onto it, like it’s helping, like _Crowley is helping_ , but the angel is crying now, and it hurts to see him like this. Aziraphale should be smiling, radiant, laughing, not...cut off and twisted and hopeless like Crowley. And he can’t not think it: Had he done this to him?

“Is it because I’m here?” he says. “Look—I’ll _go_.”

“ _No_. It’s been going on for _years_ ,” Aziraphale says. “If it weren’t for you…Oh, but of course you have to go. At some point. But I don’t—”

“I’ll stay,” Crowley says. “As long as...as long as it helps.” _Helps._ Satan, he’s not supposed to _help_. He can’t even pretend anymore, can he? Not to Aziraphale, not to anyone. He’s pathetic. And Aziraphale is looking at him, now, some sweet, soft, _angelic_ look in his eyes that shouldn’t ever be directed at a demon. And yet here they are.

“Couldn’t we go?” Crowley says, the words bursting out of him. “I mean there’s the plague spreading all through everywhere. There’s got to be something else, something better—”

The door of the library opens, and Albert is there. Aziraphale doesn’t draw away quickly enough, and Albert’s eyes narrow. There it is. That look. Crowley knows what that look is. He scrambles for his glasses before Albert can get any closer.

“What the devil?” Albert says, looking between them, where their joined hands had been. “Brother Francis, where is your decorum?” But then he sees Aziraphale’s tear-streaked face, and his anger seems to ebb. “What is this?” he says, his voice a little calmer.

“I was only attempting to offer comfort,” Crowley says, affecting sincerity. “We were praying together. For his loss.”

Aziraphale gapes at him. His face is too revealing, Crowley thinks. The angel could never lie well. Albert blinks. Tears or no, he doesn’t believe them, doesn’t trust them, or like them, not even a little. How had Aziraphale lasted here for so long?

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “We...received word about my sister...passed away in the plague.”

“We’ve gotten no letters here,” Albert says.

“There was a messenger,” Aziraphale says, uncertainly. Albert looks around, as if making a point, but he says nothing.

“Brother Francis,” Albert says. “Sup with us. Bring your...charge. So that we can get to know him better. We ought, if he is to share our fellowship in the Lord and our hospitality.” He looks down at the table, the remnant of the unexplainable pear, the filched bread and ale. Aziraphale winces. “Unless...your _messenger_ brought more than news,” Albert adds, glaring at Crowley.

Crowley blinks innocently behind his glasses.

* * *

The first week of Crowley’s enforced presence in the dining hall, Father Albert announces that they need a group of four or five monks to pick apples in the orchard for St. Francis’s feast.

“Apple picking, huh, angel?” Crowley says quietly, leaning toward the angel across the long table they use for meals. The other monks are near them, of course, but they leave them alone. Aziraphale gives him a skeptical, questioning look, like he thinks Crowley is being sarcastic. Which is fair—Crowley, by their unspoken, mutual agreement, does not join them for anything except meals at the abbot’s order, and even then usually not more than once a day. Aziraphale tells them he has no appetite. Crowley imagines the looks they give him when he speaks for Crowley, the questions they ask, with their words and eyes, and Crowley wonders, again, how long this can really last.

On the day of the apple picking, Aziraphale joins the three other monks who’ve volunteered in the courtyard, and Crowley peers through the tiny window in the scriptorium as they start off, the four of them taking turns with two wheelbarrows. The monastery, Crowley had been heartened to see, doesn’t currently have a horse in its stables, so a cart is out of the question. Crowley hates horses.

Crowley takes advantage of Aziraphale’s absence (or so he tells himself, though in truth it makes no difference except that the angel isn’t there to feign horror and then laugh) to add small serpents at the corners of several pages of the bible he’s illuminating. And then he wraps his cloak around him, replaces his glasses, and starts off the way the monks had gone.

He finds Aziraphale easily, but doesn’t approach him right away. Instead, he fills a basket—never mind where he gets the basket, or how exactly he fills it—with bright, juicy apples that put the tiny, brownish things growing here to shame. He does this for a laugh, yes, but also to surprise—or rather, to _shock_ —Aziraphale. And if Aziraphale enjoys the extra sweetness and the monks have a bit of extra fruit to tide them through the coming weeks, then fine; he won’t object. Maybe it will endear them to his presence a bit, make this odd elysium last a little bit longer.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, when he turns and finds Crowley standing there, the other three nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale is holding an apple core, which he drops as he takes in the basket Crowley holds. “Oh, Crowley,” he says. “What—?”

“Think they’ll appreciate them?” He steps closer and sets down the basket.

Aziraphale frowns. “Are they...real?”

“Of course they’re real, angel! Here.” Crowley picks one up and holds it out to him. Aziraphale doesn’t take it. Instead, his eyes grow wide.

“Oh, is that how you—?”

Crowley blinks. _Eve_. For some reason, the reminder of what had brought him to this grove catches him off guard; for some reason, it hurts, even though he knows it’s a fair question. It must have shown on his face, because suddenly Aziraphale looks away..

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can see that no harm was meant. I shouldn’t have implied—”

“It’s all right,” Crowley says. “I can’t very well expect to go apple picking with _you_ and have it _not_ come up. It is more or less how it went, yes. Simple.”

“And now you want to tempt a whole monastery?”

“ ’Course I do. How else can I reward their hospitality?” he says, leaning into the sarcasm. Aziraphale laughs.

“Well,” he says, smiling at Crowley, looking shyly at him through eyelashes. “They _do_ look good. You’re very...you...Thank you.”

“Don’t do that, angel.” Crowley picks up an apple and holds it out again, right up to his face. “This is how it went,” he says. “ ‘Isn’t it beautiful? I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t have just a _taste_. Go on, then.’ ” He expects Aziraphale to laugh, to ask something else, to duck away, since it is so obviously a temptation. But Aziraphale seems to consider for a moment, and then, with a wicked smile, as if determined to do the opposite of what Crowley expects, he leans in and bites the apple, pressing a startled hand to his mouth to catch the juice.

“Mmm!” he says, laughing and daubing his robe. Crowley grins, exhilarated, and withdraws the apple. He takes a bite, too, curious about his handiwork. It’s sweet and tart and crisp; he catches the juices with his tongue.

“Oh, of course. You’re immaculate as ever. But look. See what you’ve done to _me_ ,” Aziraphale says, looking at his stained robe. “You, you—serpent!” There’s no bite to it. Aziraphale looks miffed, but amused. It’s all so easy and free. Not like anything else Crowley’s done for ages. Or anyone else he’s ever been around. _Immaculate_ , he thinks. A demon. Immaculate. Can Aziraphale even hear himself? He’d laugh about it, correct him...he should. But for some reason, it doesn’t seem funny, doesn’t seem like something he wants to joke about. So he just stands there, feeling the compliment and considering miracling away the stain and telling Aziraphale to shut up, and leaving the monastery right now and never speaking to Aziraphale again, and taking holy orders so he can stay forever. (What would happen if a demon took holy orders? Probably explode.)

“I believe that one’s mine,” Aziraphale says, snatching the apple from him, their damp, sticky hands colliding. Apple juice trails down Aziraphale’s arm, under his sleeve. “Get your own,” he adds, voice imperious. Crowley laughs in earnest now. He steps toward Aziraphale, intending to use a miracle to clean him up.

“Excuse me, Brother,” comes a tentative, reproving voice.

They turn. Two of the other monks are standing there, just beyond a nearby thicket, looking vaguely gobsmacked. It’s as if they’ve been watching them, waiting for a moment to speak. Crowley runs through the events that just took place in his mind, pairs the events, their words, with the shocked expressions on these monks’ faces. The ease dissipates. Crowley feels a sudden welling of shame and regret.

“We’re...just going to head back,” says the young monk who’d spoken. His eyes flick over to Crowley, then away. The other monk, an older man, is just staring. Mostly at Crowley, but he’s also giving Aziraphale a hard look, a look like he’s never seen him before. Oh, this is bad.

“My...assistant picked a great deal of very lovely fruit for us,” Aziraphale says. “We’ll carry his basket. My pickings are here, too.”

“Oh, very good, then,” the young novice says, looking relieved. “I can—” he starts forward, reaching for the basket. The other monk puts out a hand, blocking him.

“Let Brother Francis and his... _assistant_ manage their own load,” he says. “Those apples look like nothing _I’ve_ ever seen.” But he’s not looking at the apples. He’s looking at Crowley, and more worryingly, at Aziraphale.

They are not human. What these monks had seen didn’t mean what it might if they had been human men. The monks may even know, or think they do, about the inhumanity, at least where Crowley is concerned, but either way, now, it’s bad. Bad for Crowley, of course—it has always been problematic for him. But now it’s bad for Aziraphale, too. All because of Crowley, and, well, some apples.

* * *

They walk back in silence, Crowley and Aziraphale trailing, even though it seems like Crowley is deliberately hanging back, to encourage Aziraphale to join his fellows.

“And just leave you on your own?” Aziraphale says.

“I’m your _assistant_. You’re supposed to be my better. You’re not expected to just…” Crowley shrugs. He’s been acting odd since the other monks came upon them, staring and looking repelled. Aziraphale saw they way they’d looked at his apples, as if appalled by their perfect shape and the bright color of their smooth skins. Just because they came from Crowley. As if there were some human instinct that had only kicked in after humanity’s fall. Brother Darden wouldn’t even take one when Aziraphale assured him they were delicious. Now Crowley was carrying the basket himself while Aziraphale pushed the wheelbarrow full of the apples he had gathered and the other monks took turns with theirs.

He’d been surprised when Crowley had arrived in the orchard. Aside from the midday meal where Crowley sat and picked at bread Aziraphale handed him (always ensuring first that it had not been consecrated), he avoided the others and the other spaces around the monastery, not always sure what was safe. Generally, he kept to the cottage and the scriptorium, sometimes the library, and he never spoke to any of the other monks. Many of them had thought for a while that he _could_ not speak. But now they’d all seen him speak to Aziraphale. And just then, in the orchard...Aziraphale isn’t sure what the other monks think they saw or heard. He isn’t sure exactly where Crowley got the apples (though it’s obvious to him that they didn’t come from the orchard). He isn’t sure if they’d seen that miracle before Crowley even reached him, or if they heard their conversation. But he sees the way they look at him sometimes, now that Crowley is here. He sees it, but he won’t think about it, about what it means. Heaven says he has to stay here. And he can’t stand it anymore, the solitude. So Crowley is here, whatever it means. He ought to leave, yes, for both of their sakes. Aziraphale ought to ask him to, but he knows he won’t.

When they get back, Father Albert comes out to greet them. Aziraphale directs one of the younger monks to take his wheelbarrow so he can take Crowley’s basket. He watches as Crowley starts off toward the scriptorium, and turns to find the abbot and the other monks watching the demon as well.

He sets the basket down for the abbot’s examination along with the other apples, but Brother Darden frowns.

“The…” he gestures at Crowley’s retreating figure. “Picked the apples in the basket. Something odd about them. I wouldn’t eat them.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says. “They’re lovely apples. We...both picked them.” He isn’t imagining the blush that creeps across the novice’s face at these words. The abbot frowns, looks down at the basket, at the now perfectly ordinary apples there. Brother Darden starts.

“I see nothing unusual,” Father Albert says.

“I see a great deal,” says Brother Darden, eyes on Aziraphale now. “I don’t know that Brother Francis is much better than _that_ ” _—_ he gestures at Crowley—“when it comes down to it. They are too much _together_. It’s as if Brother Francis is bewitched. Or _besotted_.”

“Darden—” Albert begins.

“Crowley is a talented artist and a good friend,” Aziraphale says. “I will not speak ill of him or leave him alone among vultures.”

“There is only one bed in your cottage,” hisses Brother Darden. “Forgive us for drawing certain conclusions.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says. “But they would be mistaken conclusions. As Father Albert can attest, I frequently work late into the night. When my work is done, I retire for...a few hours only, upon the floor. Crowley makes use of the bed. I do not. I assure you that nothing improper—”

Father Albert sniffs. The novice’s face has gone completely pink. Aziraphale pities the poor boy.

“Show me his work,” Brother Darden says.

“What?”

“If he is so talented that you would give up your bed and reputation for the unique glory his talent brings to the Almighty, then show me his work. I would expect nothing short of brilliance.”

* * *

_It has gone too far._

Aziraphale thinks it as he rehearses Brother Darden’s words in his mind, as he takes down the beautiful cursed books, as he makes a stack to take to Brother Darden in his quarters. He does not know how to say this to Crowley, not only because he does not, in fact, want Crowley to go, but because something has changed between them these few months. It’s not what the other monks think it is. No one is bewitched or, goodness knows, _besotted_. When they look at each other with thousands of years of understanding behind it, it’s not a look of longing, not a look of human desire—it’s just simple, miraculous friendship, a thing perhaps _not_ new, but newly acknowledged. There’s a new ease between them, as if they’ve stopped constantly pulling away from each other, constantly wondering how much time with the other is too much, how much it is acceptable to enjoy it. And Aziraphale can tell that Crowley does not want to leave the monastery, however inexplicable.

Brother Darden scoffs at the books—of course they’re not enough for him, but he does admit that they are beautiful. Brother Darden tells him to cast Crowley out and pray, and the thought makes Aziraphale feel bereft.

_It has gone too far._

They use the apples in pies, in a suckling pig, in a soup. And of course, no one sickens or dies. Aziraphale is foolish enough to believe the threat has dwindled. He is foolish enough to believe that there is time. He thinks only of the threat to Crowley, of the threat to himself. _It has gone too far_ : Aziraphale has forgotten his duties.

One evening in December, Aziraphale is sent to say a blessing for a dying man two villages away. Their vicar has been called away, and Father Albert has requested that he go, as he has a way with blessings, that they’d asked for him especially, instead of another priest or someone from the slightly closer Pulloxhill Grange. It is possible. Aziraphale _has_ been to that village before. And obviously he _does_ have a way with blessings. Which is to say that his are all real, always effective. So he goes, sets off in the early afternoon to make it by night. But he worries about leaving Crowley, so he uses a miracle to get there a little faster. Then, when he arrives and finds no one in need of him, he turns around and heads back straight away. It only occurs to him when he’s halfway back that it might have been a trick.

And now it _has_ gone too far.

This is the night he reprimands himself. This is the night it is too late. In the scriptorium, he finds Brother Aleric in a trance. He finds Father Albert, writhing in pain on the ground, screaming in terror and comprehension, as his arm, mottled and mangled, bloats before them. And standing over them both: Crowley, the demon Aziraphale had brought into this sacred space, his yellow serpent eyes, his thin body, uncovered and blazing. His face is angry, tight.

Aziraphale had forgotten his duty. His duty was and is to these people. His duty is to God. His duty is to protect the people. Not himself. Not Crowley; not a demon.

He has no idea what he is seeing as he steps into the scriptorium. But it seems to him somehow inevitable. And it is his own fault, for not realizing sooner, the danger he’d harbored.

“Demon…” comes Albert’s choked voice. “Tell me you see it now, Francis. Cast him _out_. Be gone, be gone.”

Aleric does not move. Aziraphale gulps. He bends down to Albert, places a hand on his arm and stills the pain, then he rises to his feet again. Crowley is staring at him, he’s stiller now, less anger in the planes of his face, more fear.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “What—?”

“Are you mad?” Albert shrieks. Aziraphale spares another miracle to still him, to make him quiet. He may have gone a bit overboard, because Albert loses consciousness. Just as well.

Crowley is breathing heavily. Aziraphale’s eyes travel over his form, no longer blank and sterile. He frowns.

“He attacked me. Threatened you. They were going to—” Crowley says, voice calm, blank. When he looks at Aziraphale, he seems to crumple slightly, seems to retreat. “Angel—” It’s a plea. But Aziraphale frowns at him, disbelieving.

“Don’t,” he says. “How could you let yourself be—”

“Aziraphale, I just—you’re not safe here. I was trying to—”

“You have to leave. You have to go. Go now.” Crowley stares. Aziraphale sets his jaw. He had neglected his duty. He had allowed this to go on for too long, too far. And all of this...all of this ruin, this desecration, this _fear_ , was his fault. He had brought it here, had asked it to stay. “Get out,” he whispers. He’s not sure why he whispers.

Then Crowley shivers, and Aziraphale can’t stop himself. He bends over, picks up Crowley’s robe and holds it out to him. His hand shakes. But Crowley just looks at him, and suddenly the demon is clad in a short black cotehardie, with tens of silver buttons, thick hose, a hat, his hair shortened to his shoulders and shining. In this moment, there is no ease, no understanding between them; there is no pretending that he belongs here, no desire for him to stay. But Aziraphale realizes that alongside his own terror, there is somewhere inside of him where he feels a glimmer of emotions that are only yet to come, and that part of him is already grieving this loss. Then Crowley puts his glasses on, and he is gone.

Aziraphale sighs. He kneels to the abbot on the floor, his eyes falling on Crowley’s robe, still wrapped over his hand. It’s torn. There’s a crucifix on the floor. A sick feeling creeps over him. _No. Had Albert really attacked him? Had Crowley told the truth? He’d never lied,_ Aziraphale suddenly realizes. Whatever Crowley was, he’d never known Crowley to actually lie. He’d been so afraid, so shocked to see the demon overpowered that he hadn’t believed it. _But then—_

Aziraphale wakens the abbot. “What did you do?” he says.

“That demon. He’s a demon. I know it. I knew it. Aleric tried to—”

“I’m asking you a question, you ungrateful boor. _A demon_ might have killed you. Do you understand that. He spared you. _What did you do?_ ”

“He was either a demon, or he was your bedslave,” Albert croaks. “I knew that. A long time I suspected. But then I realized it didn’t have to be just one or the other. Aleric had his suspicions. I had mine.”

Aziraphale’s face twitches. He heals the abbot’s arm. Whatever Crowley had done had shattered every bone in it, the man’s hand bloating, warping like a sack filled with jelly. Aziraphale makes it new and whole. It occurs to him then that Crowley had known he would. His breath catches, almost on a sob.

“You’re unharmed,” he says, his voice flat. And Albert frowns as he realizes it to be true.

“What the hell are _you_?” he says. “That you could live with...that thing...and…” he flexes his arm, disbelieving. “We thought you might be a demon too. We were going to drive you out either way. For having fallen to his temptation, if nothing else.”

Aziraphale flinches. Very pointedly, he picks up the crucifix, holding it as he wraps the cord around his hand. Albert’s eyes widen. “Oh, God forgive me,” he cries out, shuddering.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says. He stands, reaches out to Aleric’s mind, then touches his shoulder, and Aleric stirs out of his trance. Aleric wears a scabbard, a club in his belt, vial in his hand. A puddle of water at his feet.

“Albert!” Aleric says. “You’re all right!”

“Of course, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, with false, hollow warmth, pushing, pushing it, all of it, the warmth, the hollowness, into the young monk. “Why on earth wouldn’t he be?”

Aleric smiles warily. “I—I don’t know. I thought. Your...assistant was...but of course he’s not even here.”

“All’s well,” Aziraphale says. “Now, if you will excuse me. I’m deprived of my assistant, and I have a great deal of work to be getting on with.”

They leave, shooting him odd looks. Aziraphale doesn’t touch Albert’s memory, thinks he needs to live with the horror and uncertainty he’d brought upon himself. He doesn’t trust that strangled prayer for forgiveness. When they’re gone, he locks the scriptorium, closes the library door behind him, and shuts himself into his empty cottage, shaking.

* * *

When Aziraphale had left to perform the blessing, Crowley had remained in the scriptorium. He’d thought about greeting Aziraphale the way he had the night before, when the angel had come back from the library long after Crowley had abandoned the close work for the evening. He’d hidden out behind the tiny cottage, using a light miracle to keep himself warm, and rolled snow into a veritable armory, which he’d used to pelt the angel. It hadn’t taken long for Aziraphale to find his store and return like for like, and they’d run across the edges of the grounds in the dark, Crowley almost not believing it, that Aziraphale would indulge this, would _enjoy_ it, even. Back in the cottage, they’d dried off with miracles and fire-warmth and blankets and sat and talked and drunk hot cider until Crowley had decided it was time for sleep.

He knew he’d have to go soon, was thinking about how to do it, how to say to the angel he couldn’t help any longer, how to explain why in a way that would neither hurt nor shock him.

Perhaps if they could talk again as they had the night before, both of them relaxed, it might be easier. It grew darker. Crowley leaned into what he was doing, breathing the sweet, almost harmless curses the angel preferred into the little snakes at the corners of the pages of the Bible. It was delightfully transgressive, but only because the humans thought it so. There was nothing inherently holy about a Bible, after all, no matter what you titled it. No reason a demon shouldn’t propagate the information within, a mixture of truth and lies and simple misinformation. But it would horrify the monks if they knew for certain whose hand had illuminated this book.

And then one, no, two of them are standing there in front of him. Crowley stands, scrambling for his glasses, but the abbot’s hands close over them. Crowley doesn’t resist. What could he do that would not be a confirmation of what the monks now see?

“Please,” he tries. “My eyes—they hurt at the light.” He will leave after this, he knows. Even if he gets out of this.

“Serpent,” Albert says. “Demon. Tempter.”

_Oh, fuck._

“See?” the other whispers. It’s the one who’d pulled him from the river. Aleric. “And his body was…”

Albert hesitates.

“Demon of Hell,” he begins. Crowley frowns. No. Not this. Not again. “I bind thee to my will. My devotion, my service to the Almighty render your Hellish wiles impotent to my command. Demon of Hell. Obey.”

Crowley shakes his head at the man in confusion, and slight amusement. Really? _Obey_. That was it?

Now, Albert’s hands push at him, clumsily, and it takes Crowley a moment to realize that Albert is attempting to search his body, but it’s as if he has no idea where a cock is even supposed to be. Crowley laughs at him, can’t stop himself. The whole thing is too ridiculous. Albert pushes him against the desk, now trying to lift his robe.

“He’s harmless now,” Albert says, over his shoulder, as Aleric makes a concerned little noise.

 _Oh?_ Crowley pushes Albert back, sharply, not hard enough to send him flying.

The robe tears in Albert’s hand. The instinct to appear human is firm, and Crowley makes the effort without really considering whether it’s really necessary anymore.

Aleric blinks at him in confusion (serves him right, Crowley thinks), and Albert shakes his head, shrugging. “Ah, well,” he says to Aleric. “You’ve already proved your point. This only shows there’s more to it.”

Albert gives his crucifix a tug, and it’s off his neck. He lunges forward presses it against the skin of Crowley’s chest, just under his neck, where it sizzles, nudging against his throat. Albert’s eyes go wide with shock, then an expression like rapture blooms across his face. Great, now he can’t move, can’t miracle himself away.

“You mean what Darden was saying of Francis?” Aleric says. “Or do you think Francis is a demon too?” Then Crowley sees what’s in his hand. A little stoppered flask. He twitches. Shit. He shouldn’t have laughed.

“You won’t get rid of _Francis_ with a crucifix and some holy water,” he snaps.

“Be still,” Albert says. “Francis we’ll stop when he gets here. He’ll be a soft touch. Just hit him over the head, Aleric. Or show him the blade and I bet he’ll run. We’ll drive this one out first. He can’t hurt us.”

He removes the crucifix from Crowley’s skin. The pain is excruciating, but there’s no mark.

Crowley’s body takes a few seconds to register that the crucifix isn’t touching him. He could miracle them away, could miracle himself away. But Aziraphale. They’re talking about Aziraphale now. And what if he leaves and Aziraphale comes back and he’s alone and they ambush him, beat him? He is thinking of Pulloxhill, of the blow to the back of the head, the knife to the ribs, the hands at his throat, the water in his lungs. That can’t happen to Aziraphale. He is thinking of how it all had nearly sent him back to Hell after fifty years there, of paperwork and cruelty, and now they want to do it again. He is thinking of falling from horseback, striking his head, his abdomen gashing open, blood seeping out, water seeping into his body, and waking in hell to Beelezbub’s laughter. He’s thinking of Hastur. This time he’d stay there. He’s sure of it. They’d never let him return. And if Heaven got Aziraphale back, would he? Crowley doesn’t want to imagine the world without him. His friend, his constant; it shouldn’t be this way, but it is, and the only time it seems all right is when they’re together.

“Is Francis what he says he is then?” Albert says to Crowley. “And you’ve tempted him?” Albert shifts. Behind him, Crowley can see now that there’s a club tucked into Aleric’s belt. A scabbard. For him. For Aziraphale. The holy water is in Aleric’s hands.

“I—” For a moment, confusion flickers across Crowley, a moment he should have pushed all the thoughts from his head, any doubts he’d had, any fears gone, so he could have miracled himself away, because Albert leans in and reaches for him, for Crowley’s new effort, looping his hand around it as if to check that it’s real. Albert starts to say something, something about temptation and perversion and Aziraphale and Demon of Hell but Crowley can’t even hear him. It’s not the first time something like this has happened to Crowley, but the body is a new one, and the sensation is shocking—Crowley feels it in every part of his body, along with something else, a rage that almost boils through him. Albert will not do this to Aziraphale. Albert will not debase him. These monks will not stab him and beat him and throw him in a river. They will not break him.

He flinches, grabs Albert’s hand, jerking it away, lifting his hand to snap his fingers, and slither out of their grip, but Albert presses the crucifix into him, crippling him against miracles, so Crowley grabs his hand again, this time, using only the strength of his body, he squeezes as hard as he can. There’s an awful noise, crunching, a pop. The crucifix drops, and Albert screams, falls to the floor. Something has happened, and Aleric, armed though he is, with weapons, with holy water, turns and starts to run, but Crowley stops him. Just stops him. Nothing else. It’s the last thing he can do before he realizes everything, before it all hits him. It was all over in a moment, from Albert’s hand on him to this, broken, mutilated mess. And now there’s nothing to do but feel it, all of it. _What has he done?_

Aziraphale is safe. Crowley checks. And, heart pounding, he staggers back against the desk, shaking. He doesn’t know how much time passes before Aziraphale is there, staring at the scene—at Crowley—in horror. He speaks to Crowley, and Crowley tries to explain, but Aziraphale shakes his head and tells him to go. His eyes are doubting, distrustful, repulsed. _Well, it was only a matter of time._ He wants to warn Aziraphale, to tell him to be careful, but Aziraphale knows those things already.

It had been a risk to Aziraphale the whole time he’d been here, and yet he’d stayed...why? To drink ale with the angel and laugh with him? To give him apples he didn’t need and pelt him with snowballs? To embarrass him constantly, to invite rumors that make his position here more and more tenuous? To stand here, in front of him, naked and revealed for the monster he is?

They had both been wrong. Aziraphale sees that too, now. And Aziraphale isn’t used to it the way he is. He can’t even meet Crowley’s eyes. Crowley covers himself in the finest, as has always been his habit. It will take that much to conceal what he is. And perhaps what he is not: He is not Aziraphale’s assistant. He is not Aziraphale’s friend. How could he be, how could he ever have been, have ever thought he could be, when Aziraphale is looking at him like this—disappointed and sad and, worst of all, afraid?

He does not bother to avail himself of the door. The pretense is over. Crowley is a demon, it is his to horrify. So when he leaves, he is simply gone.

* * *

Except...Crowley lingers. Miles away, not a village in sight, he sits in the cold, next to the icy Flit. He keeps himself just warm enough not to discorporate. But he deserves this. The cold feels almost right. If he changed his form, which always feels a great risk, he might perhaps go completely numb, might freeze and not even feel it. But he does not. After three nights of this, the shame and guilt settle into a kind of resolve. He will allow himself something he does not deserve. Because there is no other way to move forward. A miracle, this time, is simply the prudent thing. He snaps his fingers, and he’s there, outside the door of Aziraphale’s cottage, on the monastery grounds once more. His eyes water. It is only a response to the cold. He knocks.

* * *

It’s quiet, the sound at the door. Aziraphale hears it, waits, then hears it again. He swallows against the fear. If they’ve come for him, he _will_ defend himself, and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’ll need presence of mind to still theirs, or a great, attention-grabbing, reserve of power to miracle himself away. But the trim figure there isn’t a monk.

“Crowley,” he says, voice colder, more uncertain than he meant it to be. Crowley looks so different this way, so...demonic.

“Aziraphale,” he says. It’s the same tone he’d used when Aziraphale had asked him to leave, like a plea. “I’m sorry. I know you told me to go. I know I said I’d go if you wanted me to, but I couldn’t just…”

“Come in,” Aziraphale says, carefully. Crowley stares, unmoving, but when Aziraphale retreats further into the cottage, he follows. They stand there by the door.

“I couldn’t just leave like that,” Crowley says. “I couldn’t let you think that I—”

“They attacked you,” Aziraphale says. “They tried to kill you. Albert...he touched your body against your will. I know, Crowley. It happened, and I’m so sorry I doubted you.”

Crowley sighs, his whole body sagging. He’s relieved, Aziraphale realizes. But his face is still strained, the lines of it still working, his mouth searching for words.

“I panicked,” Crowley says. “Angel, they were going to...drive _you_ out and do what they did to me in Pulloxhill. To you. I couldn’t do anything to get away at first—they had a crucifix against me. Holy water. I mean, at first I thought if I showed them I was a demon, they wouldn’t bring the other thing into it. What they thought about us. That they wouldn’t blame you. But it didn’t work. They said you had fallen to temptation and they were still going to do it. Drive you out. So I couldn’t just _leave_. Leave them to it, I mean. I wanted to stop them, wanted to just get away, but I couldn’t just let them hurt _you_ like that. I never meant, didn’t mean...I just...”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, soothingly. “It’s all over now.”

“I’m so sorry, angel. I let it…I knew what they thought. I did. I should have gone before. I let it go too far because I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want...” Crowley’s face contorts, his eyes are wet, and he looks at Aziraphale like he’s begging for something without knowing what it is.

Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. He knows how to comfort someone, and as far as that goes, it doesn’t matter at all that Crowley is a demon. Crowley _is_ his friend, and he has suffered something no one should. He had been afraid, largely deprived of his powers, and rather than seizing the moment he doubtless could have to leave, and save his own life, he had stayed in that scriptorium with a crucifix at his throat and a monk armed with holy water because he wanted to protect Aziraphale. And not just that evening. Because that’s the point, isn’t it? He’d stayed in a monastery, surrounded by these hostile implements for months now. Because he was lonely, because he wanted to stay with Aziraphale, and laugh with him, work with him. Had wanted it so much he’d risked his life, not just that night, but every moment of these last few months to do it. He takes Crowley into his arms and holds him, feels his friend sigh against him in relief at the touch, at the forgiveness, and then Crowley’s arms tighten around him, wrapping around him like the snake he’d been. Aziraphale doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t want to leave,” Crowley repeats, sounding baffled by it.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale says. “It’s all right, Crowley. You know, don’t you, that I didn’t want you to leave? I kept you here when I shouldn’t have. I didn’t want you to go. I kept thinking I should ask you to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to be without your company after so long. I should never, never have asked that of you. It was selfish of me, and I’m so sorry, my dear. So sorry. And then you tried to _protect_ me and I—”

Crowley lets out a sob.

“Shut up,” Crowley says. “Just shut up, angel. _Please_.”

So they don’t speak. Aziraphale holds him, hating himself for the momentary doubt he’d felt at the scene he’d found when he came back from the fool’s errand. Hating himself for thinking for even a moment, that any of the horror in the scriptorium that night before he’d arrived had been something Crowley had caused in the name of Hell. He knows Crowley, he realizes. And he will regret forever thinking that he had not.

Crowley eventually stills, the tension leaving his body. And he is the one to pull away, as the sun starts to rise. He doesn’t speak, just bites his lip and looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale does not deserve the depth of the apology in Crowley’s eyes.

“Be safe,” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s face flattens and stills, lips pinching. The mask falls back into place. He nods.

“Good luck, angel,” he says. “See you around.”

* * *

After that, Aziraphale doesn’t stay long. He can’t. He doesn’t care anymore if it’s what Heaven wants. They don’t question him about the miracles he uses to keep them away from his cottage. They don’t acknowledge his despair, which they should be able to sense.

So he puts it aside. All of it. Unnoticed, he steals into Albert’s cottage. He lays curses into the grimoire, pushing against the discomfort it causes him to use his power on a book like this.

“For him that uses this book, in all its unholy impotence, let it change into a serpent in his hand and rend him, and when at last he goes to his final punishment, let the flames of Hell consume him forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first read about the use of curses on medieval books [here](https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/protect-your-library-the-medieval-way-with-horrifying-book-curses), if you're interested.
> 
> The curse Aziraphale uses at the end is adapted from this actual curse mentioned in that article. It's from a book by Mark Drogin called _Anathema! Medieval Scribes and the History of Book Curses_ :
> 
> “For him that stealeth, or borroweth and returneth not, this book from its owner, let it change into a serpent in his hand & rend him. Let him be struck with palsy & all his members blasted. Let him languish in pain crying aloud for mercy, & let there be no surcease to his agony till he sing in dissolution. Let bookworms gnaw his entrails in token of the Worm that dieth not, & when at last he goeth to his final punishment, let the flames of Hell consume him for ever."


	3. Catch Me His Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 19th century brings changes to Aziraphale and Crowley’s lives and relationship. There are some soft moments and (I warned you about this fic) some slight angst.
> 
> cw: Brief mention of suicide attempt (not a major character).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “O Hunter, snare me his shadow!  
> O Nightingale, catch me his strain!  
> Else moonstruck with music and madness  
> I track him in vain!”
> 
> —from “In the Forest” by Oscar Wilde

It is 1800. Aziraphale has waited for this year to open his bookshop because Gabriel had said, long ago, that they would check in with him by now, “See how things are going, you know.”

They have not checked in. And Aziraphale cannot very well be expected to wait any longer to get on with things. The bookshop is an ample storefront in Soho, and Aziraphale has spent a long time preparing it, preparing _for_ it. Now, as he watches the influx of patrons, he trembles with anxiety as they approach his prized possessions, many of them attempting to _handle_ them. One man even asks Aziraphale his _price_ for something. Even so, Aziraphale is glad he has done it, glad the patrons seem duly impressed with his collection. It _is_ , after all, an impressive collection, and it’s well that they can see it. It would also be well if they kept their grubby hands off of his books. (Human hands _are_ always so grubby.)

Crowley is there. Aziraphale had warned him away until 1800, when they’d last met. “I’m expecting Gabriel,” he had said, daubing his mouth with a napkin in case of stray whipped cream after they’d finished their meal of crepes (or rather, after Aziraphale had finished their meal, Crowley taking a few bites and, smirking as he’d pushed his plate over to Aziraphale. _“What, no, of course they’re delicious, angel. It’s just...I don’t enjoy it the way you do. Eating.”_ ). He’d told Crowley it was probably best they didn’t meet again before 1800. He hadn’t told Crowley he’d known he was in Paris, had come looking for him, dressed conspicuously (he hadn’t planned to be arrested, but he had wanted to be easy to notice, to look his best). He had wanted to be sure the demon knew Gabriel might come at any moment, just in case.

He hadn’t expected Crowley _in_ 1800, hadn’t expected the demon to keep such careful track of when he might have leave to approach again, and to do it at practically that moment. And yet here is Crowley, standing by his side as he welcomes and evaluates the patrons. Here was Crowley, this morning, with a box of chocolates in hand and a possibly unironic _congratulations_ on his lips, blood-dark waistcoat, black tailcoat and fitted breeches, the long, tightly curled hair he’d had in Paris gone now, in favor of a more modern, trimmed haircut. Aziraphale had taken the chocolates to the back room, heart pounding the way it did sometimes when he saw Crowley. Well, the last few times, anyway. And then Crowley had fallen into step beside him, let him show him the shop before patrons began to trickle in, almost as if he were interested in _books_. Aziraphale has not forgotten the fourteenth century, has not discarded the only remaining evidence he had of the few months they’d spent at the monastery; the bibles they’d made together, the beautiful books Crowley had illuminated (and read, whatever he implied about his thoughts on reading). But he could hardly be expected to set out these blessed, cursed books on a day like this, could hardly be expected to remind Crowley of that unfortunate, regrettable episode in both of their lives. And then when the patrons arrived, when they began to crowd in, even, Crowley stayed by him, quiet, but _there_ , balancing things out so the people didn’t get _too_ comfortable with Aziraphale, didn’t feel drawn in by him the way they might have otherwise, and thought twice about approaching the pair of them with their ridiculous _requests_ and offers of _money_.

When Aziraphale can’t stand it any longer, he sends the humans away, and though Aziraphale’s dismissal does not make a distinction between any of his guests, still Crowley does not leave. Instead, he turns to Aziraphale and watches him, waiting. Aziraphale smiles.

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “What are you in the mood for now?”

“Alcohol,” Crowley says, craning his neck toward the back room. “Where’s your wine?”

“Oh, well. Surely we can get dinner first,” Aziraphale says. “If you...have time, I mean.”

Crowley’s face moves, mouth popping open slightly. “ ’Course I have time, angel. Lots to celebrate, isn’t there?” His voice is soft, understanding, almost like he’s about to lead into a temptation. But he says nothing else. And Aziraphale, suddenly filled with joy, reaches for Crowley’s hand, grasping it for just a moment.

“Yes, my dear. So very much,” he says.

* * *

They go to Rules and have wine with their dinner. Or, more accurately, Crowley has wine, and Aziraphale has dinner. Crowley watches him eat, feeling as he had that time in Paris when Aziraphale had seemed to think that rewarding him with lunch was acceptable while thanks were not.

Crowley had known what Aziraphale was doing then; had known that the angel just wanted to see him, to talk with him, without asking for it. Aziraphale has not asked Crowley to do anything _directly_ since the incident with the monastery. They don’t speak of it. Crowley knows Aziraphale regrets it, but _he_ doesn’t.

Even from a Hellish standpoint, it had been a success: he’d been able to claim the plague striking the monastery and nearby Pulloxhill as one of his; he had even been able to claim the uprising in that area of voyages into the occult as one of his, and perhaps it had been. He didn’t know, didn’t really care. He’d gone north, inciting a few incidents of heresy in the philosophically minded (who’d then developed methods of disease prevention, a detail which he simply left out of his reports). He’d seen Aziraphale then, spotted him in the distance, leaning over those too poor for sickbeds. He remembered the angel leaning over _him_ , a demon, his hereditary enemy, stitching him back together, warming him, protecting him. Looking at him like he was worth seeing. Laughing at his jokes. Asking him to stay. Aziraphale said he regretted that, but Crowley had treasured it. No one had ever wanted him to stay.

But he also remembered the way he’d held on to that angel, not leaving when he should have, even going back when he’d been ejected. The way he’d wrapped himself like a snake around Aziraphale, who’d offered him a pitying embrace, Crowley blubbering because he didn’t want the angel to be afraid of him. He was a _pathetic_ demon. At least where Aziraphale was concerned. So, embarrassed, he didn’t approach Aziraphale when he saw him in the north, wasn’t sure if the angel even saw him, even knew he was there.

But things were all right after that. After they’d gotten a little space. Things were more like they were before, more distant. They knew better now, than to get too close, too comfortable. Knew enough to understand that the humans would punish them even if their home offices did not. So when Aziraphale had found him in Paris (because let’s be honest, that’s what had happened), it had been the first time in a while, and Crowley had been glad to get him out of his ridiculous bind. So he’d already been feeling indulgent. And then they’d gone for crepes. And Aziraphale had...eaten. At first, Crowley expected him to rein himself in, to grow a bit more self-conscious, but when he thought about it, there was nothing Aziraphale was doing that was _wrong_ , exactly. He wasn’t messy, didn’t stain his clothes like he had with the apple that had gotten him so flustered at the monastery. He didn’t eat like he was ravenous. He had flawless table manners. It was more the tiny little movements of his face and body as he ate, and the _quantities_. He _moaned_ , he placed bite after bite on his tongue, each one so delicately, and each time he closed his eyes and made little sounds of pleasure that Crowley found himself chasing, even leaning across the table toward the angel, almost in danger of moaning, himself. At first, Crowley caught himself and stopped, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice when he _didn’t_ stop himself, sometimes just caught his eye and smiled, and Crowley wondered if maybe he was doing it on purpose, because he had to be aware, didn’t he, of the absolutely theatrical display he made? Of the effect it was having on Crowley? Oh, Satan, Crowley couldn’t let him be aware of _that_. Could he?

Now, at Rules, he leans across the table, not bothering to restrain himself, as Aziraphale eats oysters. It was just like Rome, he remembers. But, no, in Rome Crowley hadn’t...he’s different now, his _body_ is more a part of him. He’s capable of...things. Feelings. Desires. And Aziraphale? Well...he must be different, too, by now, right? At least, he must have the equipment, but maybe it works differently with angels? _Codpieces,_ Crowley thinks. _He’d definitely.._. _Yes, he must have. Oh, Satan. This is not a helpful line of thought._

“More drinks, angel?” he says. “And chocolates back at your shop?”

“Oh, yes. If you like,” Aziraphale says. “If you have the time.”

“Angel,” Crowley says. “You’ve got your bookshop. It’s been seven years. Gabriel’s not here. You _are_. I think I can take a little time to cele—to get you properly drunk.”

Aziraphale, damn him ( _no, not that_ ), blushes. Crowley can’t look away. He’s grateful for his glasses.

As they step onto the street, Crowley takes his arm. He feels Aziraphale stiffen a little, but when no one looks at them (Crowley makes sure they don’t), he relaxes, turns to Crowley and smiles even, and he doesn’t pull away.

* * *

Aziraphale hesitates when they return to the bookshop. He supposes they should go into the back room, but, well, that’s where the books are, the ones Crowley illuminated. He’ll see them, recognize them. Aziraphale hadn’t expected him, hadn’t planned for this.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, letting go of his arm so Aziraphale can open the door. Aziraphale’s arm feels cold where his hand had been, the warmth of the demon’s touch suddenly, unpleasantly absent.

“Oh, yes. Ah, stay right there. Just let me—” he crosses the store quickly, pushes open the door to the back room, and starts stacking the books, moving them from his desk to an open box in the corner. He doesn’t hear Crowley coming closer.

“You kept them,” Crowley says, from the doorway.

“Oh! I told you to stay there!”

“You have to be more specific,” Crowley says, a slow smile spreading over his face as he makes a show of craning his neck and peering into the room. “I can see from out here.”

“I didn’t want—I thought it might upset you.”

“We can _talk_ about it, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, finally, coming into the room fully. “It doesn’t have to be some…” he waves a hand, “...thing.” He stops in front of Aziraphale, takes off his glasses and looks down at the book in Aziraphale hand. Crowley reaches for it, and Aziraphale hands it to him, nervous.

“Crowley,” he begins.

“It’s nice you kept them,” Crowley says, opening the book, running his hands over the illustrations.

Aziraphale studies his face, the little smile there, a twisted thing, sadder, perhaps, than Crowley realizes. He turns and casts around for the boxes where his wine is, draws out two bottles.

“Sufficient? At least to start?” he says, turning. Crowley is still leaning over the book. “Crowley?”

Crowley turns, grabs one of the bottles, pops the cork out with a miracle, and sags onto Aziraphale’s sofa, already drinking.

When it’s late, and they’re both so drunk the evening must be about to come to an end, Crowley raises his head. It’s so obviously an struggle that Aziraphale almost wants to help him. It would feel nice, he thinks, Crowley letting him help, letting him support him if he needed it, leaning into him. But he’s only drunk. There’s nothing _wrong_.

“Angel,” Crowley says. “Look, don’t...don’t hide the books from me. I like them. I liked…” he’s waving his hand. “I liked staying with you, you know?”

“I should never have—”

“And I shouldn’t have agreed. But we did, and fuck it, Aziraphale, I was happy.”

“Oh.”

“Did you...I mean, no, never mind. Just...let’s not, let’s not act like it was all of it some terrible thing. I mean, unless...”

They’re quiet a long time. Aziraphale feels fragile, breakable. “Sober up?” Crowley says, finally. Aziraphale nods. He’s finding it hard to breathe. He doesn’t like thinking about the monastery, doesn’t like thinking about how wrong he’d gotten things, how he’d failed Crowley and God and Heaven and himself and the people he’d been supposed to convert and protect, and now Crowley is telling him that maybe some part of it hadn’t been that way, after all, not really. That maybe one part of it hadn’t been all in his head, that maybe part of it hadn’t been just his own selfishness.

“Crowley,” he says, voice quiet, almost hoping that Crowley won’t hear him. But he does, of course he does. Crowley looks at him, waiting for him to go on, and Crowley, unlike Aziraphale, is sober already, his face the sardonic mask that Aziraphale knows only hides his patience. Aziraphale swallows, still drunk. “I was happy too.”

* * *

Aziraphale hasn’t gotten any direction from Heaven since the instruction to deal with the situation at the monastery nearly five hundred years ago. And Aziraphale has stopped sending in reports.

Halfway through the 18th century, he’d found a young woman threatening to throw herself off a cliff in Dover, into the English Channel. Apparently, her husband had been shipwrecked. But there were other members of her family, people running toward her, calling for her. She was at the edge, and they might not have made it to her in time, so Aziraphale had used a quick miracle to raise her spirits, to get her to understand that there might be other things to live for. He’d felt pleased with it, watching her siblings and friends embrace her, and had slipped away with the certainty of a job well done. But when he sent in the report, Heaven had returned it with only a comment scrawled in red the margins to avoid extraneous miracles that interfere with the human exercise of freewill. It had seemed such a heartless, cold response, that Aziraphale had found himself hesitating before using any miracles at all afterward, reluctant to draft reports he’d have to be dishonest about. He’d quickly realized that the solution lay not in an overly restrictive attitude toward miracles, nor in a judicious application of honesty in reports, but in simple, total reticience. It was after all, the only thing he had not yet tried. Heaven had not objected, had not seemed to notice at all. The last report he’d sent in had been just a few years later, then none since. He did try to keep his miracles small, hoping to avoid reprimand, but there had been none.

 _They don’t care what I do,_ he thinks now. It had hurt when he’d first started to realize it, all those years ago. Had hurt more when he’d stopped caring what they thought. But now, it doesn’t hurt at all, now it’s reassuring. Because now it’s well into the 19th century and he’s in Paris with Crowley, who had, on one of their now-frequent social visits, had a sudden, spontaneous idea that they should take a trip for crepes. They’re both dressed in their finest now the Revolution has long ended. And most significantly, Crowley is holding his hand, and Aziraphale hasn’t pulled away. Anyone at all could see the two of them together, and people _are_ looking at them, their eyes catching on the pair as they stroll around the river. Aziraphale knows they must wonder about them, about what they’re doing together. Someone as sinuous and mysterious as Crowley, with someone so...bumbling and nondescript as him. He’s wondering it, too, even as Crowley’s fingers brush over his, back and forth, deliberate, commanding Aziraphale’s attention. He ought not to allow this, probably, but they’re in _Paris_ , and the humans don’t seem bothered, and _Heaven doesn’t care anymore_ , so really, what’s the harm?

* * *

It’s not so unusual for gentlemen to clasp hands, though this might be a bridge too far, even in Paris. This, _their_ hand-holding, has been going on for far too long today, and Crowley ought to make it so they escape notice, but he can’t; he likes seeing the faces of the people they pass, their eyes naturally drawn to Aziraphale’s sweet, open face and his radiating, visible kindness. Crowley is used to attracting looks, when he wants to: open disapproval or skittering admiration or outright lust. But he likes how they respond to the angel. Faces lighting up before they even realize why. He runs his fingers over Aziraphale’s in a way he hopes is subtle enough to escape notice by passers-by, but he wants _Aziraphale_ to notice, wants to see if Aziraphale will let it happen. He feels Aziraphale gasp the first time, and it shoots something through his whole body that’s nearly indecent. Still, it’s only a hand, only an angel’s innocent hand. He’s a demon; this ought not to undo him, ought not to be something so scandalous and scintillatling he can’t even think. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away. He never has, Crowley knows, and he can’t stop himself pushing further and further. Now, when Aziraphale relaxes against the insistent, repetitive touch, Crowley wonders if the angel would follow him to his ruin, then hates himself for the thought. He doesn’t _want_ to ruin Aziraphale. Quite the opposite. He _wants_ to worship him, wants to cradle his blond head and lie him down right here on this soft grass and ease off that dove-grey coat and everything beneath it and kiss every part of him until Aziraphale is shaking and panting and begging for him, and then, because Crowley would not disappoint, crying out and screaming and whimpering with pleasure, and finally, spent and wrapped around him and _his_. And oh, Satan, that’s ruin, isn’t it, for an angel?

He looks down into Aziraphale’s face and is rewarded with a smile that’s somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, a gentle little squeeze of the soft, manicured fingers around his. What does that _mean_? Oh, Satan. He’s going to fly to pieces.

 _A picnic, a picnic._ That’s what they’re doing here, he reminds himself as he watches Aziraphale lower himself onto a tartan blanket. As he watches Aziraphale eat, moaning and sighing around macarons, and savory crepes, and red wine.

Crowley eats a few strawberries with his champagne, feeling pleasantly blurry.

“You know,” Aziraphale says. “It’s been nearly thirty years.”

“More than that, angel,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale frowns. “Oh,” he says. “ _You_ mean since we were last in Paris together. _I_ mean since Gabriel was expected.” His mouth is stained red from the wine, and now abandoning his manners, Aziraphale sucks cream from his fingers. Oh, _Satan_. _That’s_ new. Crowley forces himself to look away.

“You worried about it?” he says. It had once bothered Aziraphale. He remembered trying to comfort him in the scriptorium, his clumsy, untrained hand on the angel’s, the surprise he’d felt when Aziraphale had taken it in his. It had been different then, so different, from the way it had felt today.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Not anymore. Not since...you came back.”

“Came back?” Crowley repeats.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “When you left the monastery. When you used to...stay away.” Then he bites his lip and looks up at Crowley, that shy thing he does, through his eyelashes. Crowley hopes he doesn’t ask for anything. He knows he’ll do it, whatever it is. Anything. But Aziraphale says, like it’s some terrible secret, “I miss you all the time.”

Crowley freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say to this. He misses the angel too, _often_ , but this is...uncharted territory. This is one of those things, probably, that’s different for angels. Part of their universal, all-encompassing love or whatever it is. It’s not an invitation for him to say the same back. From a demon, a statement like that would be alarming. Maybe even horrifying. Aziraphale catches his eye and smiles, a nervous, frittering thing.

“Well, you know how to find me,” Crowley says, finally. Aziraphale nods. He smiles again, a little sadly, and reaches for the picnic basket. Crowley tops off both their glasses with red wine as Aziraphale pulls out a book and scoots up against a tree, resting his back there as he opens it, finds his page. Crowley drains his wine and reclines, closing his eyes, heart pounding. He can’t relax. He sits up again, almost immediately and takes off his glasses. Aziraphale is looking at him, book still open, little reading glasses he couldn’t possibly need in place. Crowley reflects on the odd symmetry of it—his glasses off, Aziraphale’s on. Then, not letting himself think about it, he moves closer to Aziraphale, practically slithering, and rests his head in his soft lap. He expects Aziraphale to frown, to tense up, to ask what he’s doing, or sigh with impatience at his antics, or just ignore him. But Aziraphale does none of that. Instead, he smiles down at Crowley, a real smile this time, then goes back to his book. Well, all right then. And Crowley feels a little more comfortable, even if his heart is pounding. He closes his eyes and tries to get it under control only to start when he feels Aziraphale’s hand alight on his head, fingers stroking across, then moving through, his hair. He does moan then, just a little, a small noise, more than a sigh, then he swallows, forces it down, embarrassed and overwhelmed. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice; his fingers don’t stop.

* * *

They stay in the park all afternoon, Crowley’s head warm and heavy in Aziraphale’s lap, his hair soft and silky beneath his fingers. Aziraphale feels an excruciating tenderness in his chest when Crowley first lands there against him. He recognizes it as a reciprocation: He’d told Crowley he’d missed him. The way he misses him always, when he doesn’t see him for a hundred years, or a week, or even, sometimes, when he’s just left. He doesn’t know if Crowley really understood, or if Crowley misses him, ever. But Crowley wants _this_ kind of closeness, right now. And Aziraphale is starting to understand that he will never push him away. The tenderness doesn’t dissipate or release as Aziraphale strokes the soft red hair. The tenderness only grows, an exponential sort of growth, like a bloom, even as Aziraphale calms, even as he returns to his book. Because sometimes he looks down and Crowley is there, so very dear, and needing him in this small way. Wanting something he can give, something he is very happy to give. It doesn’t bear thought—it’s love. They love each other. He’d known it before, years ago when it felt so innocent and sad, Crowley with his arms around Aziraphale as he’d cried, uncertain and hurt and afraid because it hadn’t made sense to Crowley then; he hadn’t been willing to admit he _could_ feel or accept love, even though Aziraphale had understood both as soon as Crowley returned to the monastery in the middle of the night, ashamed and struggling with himself to beg for Aziraphale’s friendship, something the demon hadn’t even really believed in or understood. But this is different. It’s _theirs_ because now they’ve claimed it, and it’s joyful and maybe even exhilarating. And of course it’s beautiful, because all love is beautiful. The love of a demon for an angel perhaps most of all. It should be impossible; it shouldn’t exist. Aziraphale does not know how to express this in a way Crowley would be willing to hear, so he just smiles and smoothes the silky hair until Crowley is asleep, his lovely face innocent and serene.

When the sky starts to darken, Crowley has been long asleep, and Aziraphale wakes him, closing his book. They could miracle themselves back to London and their separate lives, but as they put away the blanket, the basket (subtle miracles in case there are any stragglers to witness), Aziraphale has another idea. “Let’s go back together,” he says. “Would you see me home?”

Sleep-drunk, Crowley nods, and, though it had not been what Aziraphale intended, miracles them away without another word. They are a block away from the bookshop, hands finding each others’ in the dark as they walk. Aziraphale wants to invite him in, but then what? Crowley is tired from the huge miracle, and still a little drunk—it’s been a day of miracles for him—it’s best to just let him go, perhaps, and an invitation to sit inside the shop hardly seems like enough, anyway, to express what he’s feeling, this fullness in his chest. No, he realizes, what he wants is to invite Crowley into himself. But then, he’s already there, isn’t he?

Crowley follows him into the bookshop. Aziraphale settles him on the couch, covers him with a blanket, and kisses the sharp bone of his cheek, once, twice, surprising himself with the second press of his lips to the hot skin. Crowley blinks furiously, but he says nothing and lets himself settle. When Aziraphale comes back into his back room with a mug of tea and a book, Crowley has already returned to sleep.

* * *

It’s nice having Crowley there, even though he’s asleep, draped over the couch, fingertips nearly brushing the carpet. It feels somehow warmer in the bookshop, cozier, just knowing he’s there, even though Aziraphale, at his desk, has his back to his friend. But there’s a reason they don’t _do_ this. That even now, with this new understanding between them, they don’t stay together _this_ much. Crowley has never spent a whole day and a night in his company, aside from, well, the incident at the monastery. No, there’s a reason they don’t do this, and it has nothing, really, to do with that.

When Crowley had come for him in the Bastille, helping him avoid a miracle, he’d told Aziraphale not to thank him, and it was more than a matter of demonic pride. Hell, Crowley had mentioned on more than one occasion, had stricter forms of discipline than Heaven. Oh, it was much harder to rise (or sink) to the level of needing discipline in Hell—they didn’t much care what you did—but Crowley had made it clear that they did a lot more than write miffed, instructive comments in the margins of your latest report. He shouldn’t, then, _let_ Crowley stay here. The thought gives him a panic, makes him clutch his chest as if his heart and lungs were really necessary, as his mind catapaults him back to Dunstable Priory, to the two of them, laughing and cursing books, bending their heads together over half-illuminated, misprinted Bibles, squirreling away books of prophecy (of which he now had an even more substantial collection, most of them cursed as well, to keep prying eyes away). They’d been so delighted with each other, with themselves, that they’d ignored the looks they got, the multifaceted speculation Aziraphale had known was there all along. He’d failed to protect Crowley then, and he wouldn’t do it now. No, not when there was this much to lose.

He has water. He has flasks. There’s no reason not to...go ahead and do what must be done. He presses his lips together, pushes away his feelings. He’ll just have to tell Crowley right away, so he’ll know, so he won’t go poking around and stumble onto... _Oh._ Aziraphale is pressing his hands to his mouth, unable to move. He’d been so concerned about Gabriel and his stupid expectations and his stupid, unkept promises. He’d never even _asked_ Crowley about Hell, had just let him take Aziraphale to the Ritz and to Paris, and invited him in, and...had they really held hands and walked by the Seine? Had Crowley really fallen asleep with his head in Aziraphale’s lap? He hasn’t really had the time he’s used to, the time alone, to process, to incorporate the information. But yes, it definitely happened. It had been so...lovely, so sweet. Crowley, the warm weight of him lying against Aziraphale, his face in sleep so dear and something he hadn’t thought he’d ever see again, hadn’t thought he _deserved_ to see again since the monastery. No, he _needed_ to do this. Because otherwise, he’d have to send him away, and they both know that wouldn’t work at all.

By the time Crowley wakes, Aziraphale is determined. Crowley swings his feet to the floor, miracling his cravat and waistcoat and hair into place as Aziraphale turns around to look at him.

“Tea?” he says. He’s maybe too cheerful.

“No,” Crowley says. He looks around. “Angel, did you sit there all night? Watching me sleep?” He picks out the last words carefully, enunciating each one. Aziraphale frowns.

“As a matter of fact, I did not. No. I...Are you quite...rested?”

“Well, I only _slept_ for about ten hours. Courtesy of your tartan and your soft lap.”

Aziraphale’s face turns hot. “Yes, well,” he says, forgetting what he’d planned to say. The careful words, the questions, the assurances. “Yes. About...that. I...I’ve got some holy water. As a defense. For. Insurance.”

Crowley’s face goes still and drawn as he rises to his feet. “You _what_?”

“Oh, perhaps…I should have asked you first.”

“Aziraphale. Stop. Do you want me to go? If you want me to go, I’ll go. It’ll be like I was never here. You’ll never see me again. If that’s what you want. You can ask. Gone. I don’t _think_ that’s what you want, but I must be seriously misunderstanding _something_ here. Because last night you _kissed me good night and tucked me in_ and now it sounds like you’re telling me you can destroy me, and I—”

“No! _Other_ demons! I can— _we_ can destroy them. If Hell comes for you. To _protect_ you. Us.”

Crowley nods, a shudder passes through him, and he sits back down on the couch. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut, it doesn’t stop the tears.

* * *

Crowley takes a deep breath. Aziraphale, he can see, is trying not to cry. He hates that, but he can’t move, can’t shake off what just happened here, the notion he’d been unable to reason away for just a few seconds, and what the thought had done to him. He can’t put away how Aziraphale’s body is now holding something like despair—Crowley can sense that—at the idea that Crowley had believed it, even for a second.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice coming as if from far away. “You can’t think that I would ever, ever seek to destroy you. There’s nothing you could ever do that would make me desire such a thing. No circumstance under which I would even consider it... You must know that. I only wanted you to be safe here. To know that we can defend ourselves if we have to...But Crowley, do you _feel_ safe? With me, I mean?”

“You know I do. ’S not everyone gets to see me sleep.”

“I know. And I would never abuse that, Crowley.”

“I _know_ , angel. I didn’t really think you meant it. Just didn’t know _what_ you meant. Besides, _I’m_ the demon here; I’m meant to be the fearsome one.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale says, smiling a watery smile. “Quite.” He reaches for Crowley’s hand and grasps it. Crowley brings Aziraphale’s hand to his lips before releasing it. Aziraphale’s breath catches. Crowley feels pleased, giddy at the sound and the sharp relief flooding him. He wonders if he’d dare to do anything else. Aziraphale defending him like this...wanting to. It has to mean something.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have—done it,” Aziraphale says, his voice like air. He doesn’t look at Crowley. “If you think it was a bad idea. I can get rid of it. Maybe it’s too dangerous.”

“No, it’s a good one. Just not particularly...angelic. I wonder I didn’t think of it first. _Insurance?_ No, I like that, angel. Clever. I must be rubbing off on you.”

“I see.” Aziraphale sighs; he turns to head back to his desk. Crowley reaches for his hand again and turns him around. Aziraphale blinks in surprise. His face is red.

“Hey, it’s all right, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “I didn’t mean it like that. You were just thinking of me. That’s angelic love and all that, isn’t it?”

“I was thinking of both of us,” the angel says, sliding his hand away, frowning. _Fuck, okay_. Crowley nods, hiding disappointment. Well, so much for trying on anything else today. He’s not expecting Aziraphale to step closer, wrap his arms around him and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” but he does, and Crowley feels his breath on his neck, hot and clean, the soft hair tickling his chin. _Oh, shit, shit._ He’d _feel_ like this, wouldn’t he, if he let Crowley lead him to the couch, lie him down on that blanket? He’d be soft and warm and gentle. Those pale, well-kept hands he’s watched soothe fears and defend against them would touch Crowley that way, tender and...strong. Yes, Aziraphale would know his own desires; he would tell Crowley what he wanted, all his words coming out precise and careful and delicately placed. _Fuck_ , Crowley can’t think like this. Crowley gulps, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice what his demon body is doing, pressed into an angel like this. The whole corporation feels like it’s on fire. And he hadn’t intended...He edges his hips back, careful, hoping Aziraphale won’t think he’s trying to pull away. He doesn’t want to hurt him. Doesn’t want to scare him, either.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Crowley says. Good lord, he can’t stop himself.

“My dear fellow, it’s not yet gone on seven o’clock!” Aziraphale says, drawing back, looking at him. But his smile is radiant and amused; his face is still flushed pink.

“Well, not everywhere it isn’t,” Crowley says. “Anywhere. Anywhere you want to go.”


	4. To Dance Upon the Air (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the 19th century brings complications and misunderstandings when Aziraphale meets a new friend. Yes, Oscar Wilde has arrived. Also, Aziraphale tries the gavotte.
> 
> cw: angry speculation about whether alcohol was deliberately used to cloud judgment. (But nothing particularly sexual in this section.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is sweet to dance to violins  
> When Love and Life are fair:  
> To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes  
> Is delicate and rare:  
> But it is not sweet with nimble feet  
> To dance upon the air!  
> —From “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” by Oscar Wilde

Things are lovely for a while, even if Crowley would never be caught using that word. But the angel is happy, always greets him with bright smiles, always invites him back to the shop whenever they go out, always tucks him in when he doesn’t leave.

That first morning when Crowley wakes up in the bookshop, Aziraphale shows him where he keeps the holy water and sends a flask of it away with him, under the condition that Crowley promises to lock it away and only to take it out when absolutely necessary. They have their lunches, their trips, when one of them is feeling especially whimsical. Sure, Crowley has his moments when he has to rein himself in, has to remind himself that any flashes of lust he feels from the angel are his own doing, his own unintended temptations spilling over, not something he should grab onto and use.

They start to work together. It’s a kind of extension of the Arrangement, Crowley guesses. They’ll talk about some situation, somewhere things have gone wrong, and then once they’ve figured out what they both think, one of them will say, “We ought to go and do something.” And they do. They go separately, and Aziraphale will try to bring about some obvious, good outcome, and Crowley will find a way to trick, to tempt people into...well, usually into not torturing each other. Even though it seems like it should be good work, Aziraphale does not write reports.

“You’re still not hearing from them?” Crowley asks, one day in the 1860s.

“I imagine they think I’ve got the hang of things by now,” Aziraphale says. Crowley doesn’t want to disabuse him of this idea. It obviously brings the angel some kind of comfort, so he says nothing. He takes Aziraphale’s hand, in case it helps, and Aziraphale kisses his cheek.

They don’t talk about the misunderstanding they had the first morning Crowley woke up in Aziraphale’s shop. They don’t talk about what it is, exactly, either of them has misunderstood: they don’t talk about the truth of it. And no one comes, not from Heaven or Hell, anyway.

Someone does come, though. Things are lovely for a while, and then, in 1887, Oscar arrives.

* * *

That morning, Crowley wakes up in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, finds Aziraphale pouring them tea, as if he knew exactly when Crowley would wake, and maybe he did. He’d stayed there enough. Crowley takes his tea without words, smiles at the angel, who looks at him so indulgently, so _shyly_ , Crowley can’t resist letting something else creep into that smile as he takes his first sip. Then he sees what Aziraphale was looking at before he’d awoken—one of the bibles he’d lettered.

“Angel,” he says, and Aziraphale flutters a little, like he doesn’t want Crowley to see it, to know. “Bring it here, then,” he says. “I’d like to admire my handiwork, too, you know.”

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale says, looking relieved. And Aziraphale brings it to him. He places it on Crowley’s lap as he sits down next to him, pressing into him, and reaches over and opens it, his fingertips just missing brushing over Crowley’s thighs, and Crowley feels very, very glad that the book is on his lap.

“You cursed these little serpents,” Aziraphale says, tracing his fingers over them, his own tea apparently forgotten, even as Crowley sips his own in an effort to distract himself, to ground himself. Then...why, again, is he doing that? He sets the tea down and presses a hand over Aziraphale’s, on top of the book, wrapping their fingers together. Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. Instead, Aziraphale reaches over with the other hand and turns the page. “We _were_ happy, weren’t we?” he says. “Oh…” his eyes have fallen on an illustration, and it’s them, the two of them, looking human and mismatched, Crowley had done, making them the wise men. “You did them all differently, didn’t you? Each time? Oh, Crowley...”

Crowley can feel his breath on his face. They’re so close. Why are they so close? Why has the angel sat like this? Does he know what he’s doing? Breathing his soft, clean breath on him and touching him and talking like this, soft and wondering, _admiring_ his demonic handiwork... Oh, God...this has to mean something, it has to. Crowley turns to him, trying to catch his eye because maybe he ought to just see if...and the shop door clangs.

A man stands there, looking around imperiously, a large man, with a strong, powerful build, but worn softly. He’s carrying a cane and two books. Aziraphale startles and lets go of Crowley, standing.

“May I help you?” Aziraphale says. Crowley watches as the angel’s eyes travel over the man, who admittedly is dressed very...decorously. Crowley takes it in, the hat, the buttonhole, the velvet. He’s _lush_. The man examines both of them, too, looking down his long nose. There’s a slow smile spreading, across his red lips, revealing yellowed teeth. For such a set of features, it’s a kind, if imperious, smile, a welcoming, understanding expression: he doesn’t mean them any harm. But he’d seen their hands together, the closeness of their bodies on the couch. And Crowley could tell it had frightened Aziraphale that he’d seen that. And he’s there, now, just when Crowley had thought maybe Aziraphale might...but it’s a ridiculous thought, and this man has made Crowley confront it. He looks away from the newcomer, open and artful with his disdain.

But the worst part about Oscar is that he doesn’t _leave_. That first day, Crowley waits for Aziraphale to come back after showing him out, and he _doesn’t_. Instead, the two of them have disappeared into the bookshelves, and Oscar, when he finally leaves, it’s without buying anything, and only after a long chat by the door, like Aziraphale isn’t even trying to get him to clear out.

Crowley lets it go on too long—a few weeks—before he says something, because he’s not sure how to talk about it without breaking open and showing all the rot he’s kept tucked behind his shell. So he just pretends like it’s fine even though he’s been gritting his teeth for almost two weeks now, when he’s with the angel. Even though he hasn’t _been_ with the angel nearly as much as he wants because Aziraphale is sometimes doing actual bookstore business now, or talking to _Oscar_ instead of him. (“Oh, I’m heading out now, with Oscar,” Aziraphale says, one evening when Crowley turns up to see if he wants to have dinner. “You should come along, dear.” Crowley declines. Even though he knows he has no right, he wants to forbid it from happening at all, wants to tell Oscar to step back, step away from the angel. He considers cursing him, even. Nothing _too_ terrible, but Aziraphale must see the look on his face, because he doesn’t push. Or maybe Aziraphale doesn’t even want him to come. Maybe Aziraphale is relieved to get _Oscar_ all to himself.) Crowley knows who Oscar is. He’s done his research. And the man has quite the reputation. He’s taken Aziraphale out to dinner already, Crowley knows. They’ve seen each other at least three times now, and it’s hours at a time they talk. It makes Crowley’s heart stop when he thinks about it, how he’d been so careful, so slow, wanting to feel things out, to test things with Aziraphale, but not to frighten or threaten the angel, and here he’d gone _awakening_ things in Aziraphale only for someone else to swoop in and…

Aziraphale wouldn’t, though, with a human...would he? What would happen to him if he did? And it would be Crowley’s fault, wouldn’t it? Because he’d done this to the angel. Or perhaps Aziraphale doesn’t feel that way, doesn’t even realize what Crowley thinks is happening with Oscar. Or by extension, what Crowley had hoped _might_ have been happening between them. Perhaps he truly hasn’t considered any of it.

“What is it he wants, anyway?” Crowley says, one evening, his voice rancorous. Oscar had been there when he’d arrived, but he’d gone now. If Crowley had wordlessly _suggested_ to him that he had somewhere better to be (and then hated himself for it) that wasn’t anything he needed to explain to Aziraphale.

“He’s a very interesting man,” Aziraphale says. “You’d quite like him, I think.”

Crowley scowls. “Why is he some kind of exception for you? Why don’t you send him on, like you do everyone else?”

“ _Everyone_ else?” Aziraphale is looking at him pointedly, like he’s a step away from saying something the angel will make sure he regrets. But no, Crowley will not fall into this trap. Because this is not about him. This is about Aziraphale and _Oscar_.

“Everyone else who comes into your bookshop.”

“Oscar is a writer, Crowley. His writing is very...clever.”

“‘Oscar is a writer...his writing is so _clever_ ,’” Crowley mimics, regretting it immediately. Aziraphale sighs.

“What does he _want_ from you, angel? Have you thought about that? You know, don’t you? You see how he’s sizing you up.”

“Oh, stop it, Crowley. If anything, it’s... Well.”

“What? He’s cutting into our lunches.” Crowley wants to ask him if he even cares, stops himself before the words come out.

“Crowley. I’ve been out with Oscar only twice! He’s only even been in the shop three times. If you wanted to eat with me then you ought to have come along. You were invited.”

“Oh, I bet old Oscar would _love_ that.”

“ _Old_ Oscar?” Aziraphale says, but Crowley ignores this. Aziraphale has always been hopeless with slang. “He would, really.” Aziraphale says, plaintively. “I think I’m just sort of an dull, old...well, _eccentric_ , old book dealer, to him. In fact, I think, if anything, it’s you he...fancies.”

“ _What?_ Aziraphale, you cannot be serious. You— _”_

“He called you _deliciously dissolute_. He was quite careful to include you in his invitation for next week. He _always_ asks after you. He wanted to know...oh, never mind. The point is, he doesn’t intend to leave you out. And neither do I.”

“Angel.”

“There was an invitation. He didn’t have your address, he said. And neither do I for that matter. But you’re quite definitely invited to his club. Next Thursday evening. We both are. So.” Aziraphale shrugs. The gesture does not suit him. Crowley isn’t even sure what it means when Aziraphale does it.

“Will you come?” Aziraphale says, finally.

“If it’s you asking.”

Aziraphale sighs, wringing his hands. “Well, of course I’m asking, Crowley. Of course it’s me asking you. Who else would it be?”

“Him!”

“What do you have against him?” Aziraphale’s voice is calm and sweet, like he wants Crowley soothed, lulled into complacency.

“Why are you so…?” Crowley waves his hands helplessly.

“So what? I can care about other people you know. I can have friends.”

“Yeah, of course. But when _have_ you? Not for years! Why do you suddenly need _friends_? I thought _we_ were friends. What’s happening, Aziraphale?”

The angel’s face contorts, and he wrings his hands, and looks so distressed Crowley is alarmed. He steps forward instinctively, but Aziraphale doesn’t even seem to notice.

“I don’t know, I don’t—why are you _being_ like this, Crowley?”

“Like what?” Crowley snarls, taken aback. He knows he’s said too much. They’re not supposed to call these things out. Ask these questions. He knows. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to go on. But he does.

“Like you want to...like you want to hurt me.”

 _What?_ Crowley blinks. He’s got half a mind to just storm out of the bookshop, if that’s what the angel is taking from this. But Aziraphale is just looking at him, and his eyes are all wet and _Crowley_ did that. He looks away, even as he moves closer, hating himself for giving in like this. And he doesn’t even really know what to do, or how, but he does it, rushing it, grinding his teeth together against the discomfort of being the one to do this, even as his arms close around the angel.

“I _don’t_ ,” he says. “I wouldn’t.” And then, because that’s too...something, he adds, ominously, “You’d know if I wanted to hurt you, Aziraphale. Believe me.”

He must not have sounded particularly demonic, because Aziraphale has rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder. And Crowley doesn’t want to move, not ever. He forces down some other impulse, forces down his own discomfort, and kisses the angel’s forehead. Aziraphale pulls back and looks at him in happy surprise. Crowley doesn’t bother to hide his relief.

“Next Thursday?” Crowley says, conceding.

“Yes. I would like you to come. But you don’t have to, of course.”

“No, if you want me there, I’ll come. For you. _Not_ for him.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “You won’t do anything to him, will you? He’s not a threat...it’s not like before. I...I promise. The club is...it’s in Portland Place. He said you’d know what that meant.”

Crowley does. He knows the exact place. Not somewhere he’s spent time, but he knows it. He is a demon, after all, and he has done his research. “Do _you_ know what it means, angel?”

“I have a good idea, yes. So, you see? It’s not like before. I wouldn’t let something like that happen to you again. Not for my sake.”

Crowley frowns. “ _I’ll_ protect _you_ , angel. But that’s all. You know I’ll only hurt who I have to.”

Aziraphale blinks and nods, and he can’t look at Crowley. So Crowley leaves. He can’t stand it if Aziraphale pushes him away, but he knows it’s inevitable. He’s always known it is. Eventually, Aziraphale will remember that he’s been nursing a viper, almost literally (“You won’t do anything to him, will you?”); eventually, he’ll realize that their friendship only means that he’s been allowing Crowley to profane his holy space, encroach on his sacred body, and...maybe defile his Heavenly soul. Eventually, Aziraphale will see the difference between them and realize he has to put a stop to this, whatever it is. Crowley knows it will happen. He’s just not ready yet.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to explain it to Crowley. He’d seen the way the man looked at him when first he came into the shop, like he understood something secret and treasured. It wasn’t like the way the monks had looked at him with Crowley. It was frightening, yes, but in a different way. It was frightening in a way that made Aziraphale want to see it again, made Aziraphale want to understand the treasured secret for himself, the way Oscar did. Or at least want to hear from Oscar what it was he thought he understood. He craved it.

Of course, it had only been a moment, and it was the first time they’d seen each other. So Aziraphale had just asked if he could help him, a little coldly, like he was any customer. Then, Oscar had answered. He’d _spoken_. He’d been terribly clever and droll, and he hadn’t tried to buy anything. In fact, he’d wanted to _sell_ Aziraphale some things, some old first editions he owned. Things he’d acquired in the Americas, in Ireland. And that was just perfect, really, because Aziraphale didn’t have a lot of American things, in particular. And then it was nearly tea time, and Oscar was following his nervous glances at Crowley in the back room, who had probably assumed they’d be having lunch.

“I’ve made you keep your friend waiting,” Oscar had said. “Would you introduce me? Perhaps the two of you might join me at Brown’s this evening for dinner?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale had said. “Oh, I think he...I think I’d better see—”

“It’s a standing invitation, Mr. Fell,” Oscar said. He’d lowered his voice then, “And of course I understand if you’d rather not introduce me.”

“Oh, please, it’s nothing personal.”

Oscar’s eyes lingered on Crowley, who was lying on the couch again, still paging through their Bible and watching them, Aziraphale knew, though you couldn’t see his eyes.

He walked Oscar out and turned to find Crowley standing behind him in the main shop, mouth twisted. He looked extremely put out.

“Tea?” Aziraphale had said, weakly.

Crowley scoffed. “Is that all you’re going to do today, offer me tea?”

“I _meant_ that we might go out,” Aziraphale huffed. “But if it’s such a problem for you to have another cup of tea, perhaps we might join Oscar at Brown’s for dinner. That’s near you, isn’t it? Mayfair? He did ask.”

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale. His glasses were there, but Aziraphale could tell what he was doing by the way he leaned forward, mouth twisting. “And do you want to go?”

“Why not?”

“Then have a nice evening, angel. And be careful.” Crowley had swept past him, the bell clanging as the door closed behind him.

Aziraphale wanted to call out after him, wanted to tell him to wait. But he couldn’t. He didn’t move quickly enough. By the time he stepped forward and out of the shop, Crowley was gone.

* * *

He did meet Oscar that night.

“Your friend didn’t join you? Am I being presumptuous?” he asked. “Perhaps he’s...only a patron of your shop?”

“Oh, hardly. No. He’s just...not especially sociable.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He didn’t look like the unfriendly type where you’re concerned.”

Aziraphale wanted to pursue this line of thought. He really did. But his face went red, and Oscar changed the subject.

* * *

Oscar came back the next week. Crowley wasn’t there, and there were other customers approaching the register. So Aziraphale ignored them and showed him where he had placed the books Aziraphale had appraised and bought from him, and then Oscar hesitated.

“You seem like a man of taste,” he said. “And certainly a well-read one. Perhaps you’ve seen my things?” He mentioned some magazines, things of the moment Aziraphale had never delved into. He looked hopeful, but when Aziraphale shook his head in apology, his face relaxed and he seemed almost relieved.

“Then, with your...fresh eyes, might I trouble you to read some things I’ve been working on? I am hopeful my connections might be of use to me in seeing my dramas performed, but...I can always use another opinion. And I’ve...a novel, if you like. Later.”

Aziraphale took the manuscript, a play, and read it. He marked it up a little, when Oscar asked him to, just where he thought things might improve. It was a biblical story, one of the ones the humans had got wrong. But he restrained himself, he was careful. He couldn’t explain his own knowledge, so it was best not to be too free with it. And he didn’t want anyone to feel the way Heaven made him feel, when they sent back his reports. And honestly, they were really very well-written.

He only saw Crowley a few times the whole month. Once, he swooped in, especially grand, a new topcoat clinging to his slender figure, his hat almost outlandish, a hyacinth flower in his buttonhole. Aziraphale blinked at him, eyes traveling up and down the length of his slender form. Extravagant fashion was nothing foreign to Crowley, but there was something about this that seemed especially performative.

“Dinner?” Crowley asked. But Oscar was there, waiting for Aziraphale to finish reading a poem before they went there for dinner themselves.

“Oh, I’m heading out now, with Oscar,” Aziraphale had said, mournfully. “You should come along, dear.” He’d made no effort to hide how badly he wanted this, even though he had known Crowley wouldn’t come. He could see Oscar watching, from the back room, could see the way he looked at Crowley, knowing and almost hungry. He could see, too, the way Crowley’s face contorted on seeing that same expression, the demon looking dangerously close to rage. He would have to make this up to him. He would have to...but why was it happening like this anyway? Shouldn’t Crowley make plans with him, if he expected them to have dinner? And why did Aziraphale react this way to Crowley’s ridiculous, misplaced umbrage, by wanting to _apologize_ , wanting Crowley to know that...know that _what_ , exactly? Shouldn’t he be angry at the demon?

“Come back tomorrow?” Aziraphale suggested. “Or...I could come to you?” Aziraphale reached for him without thinking, let his fingers brush against the broadcloth of the coat, near the wrist. What was he doing? The fabric was stiff, rough under his fingers, thick and well made. “This...you...you look very nice, Crowley.”

Crowley snorted. “Well, then, bit misleading, wouldn’t you say?” And he was gone. Again. And that _hadn’t_ been very nice, but Aziraphale thought, _No, I wouldn’t say so at all._ He wanted to cry. No, he wanted to go after him, but it would be too rude to leave Oscar. And there were still customers in his shop...he certainly couldn’t leave _them_ there. Who knew what they’d do to the books?

“What’s the matter?” Oscar said. “Did you ask him along? There will be quite a few people there, many of them as deliciously dissolute as he seems. He’d fit in well, I think.”

“I know. But he...well, perhaps you remember. I explained that he is...not always sociable.”

There was a long silence.

“What is he?” Oscar said, finally.

Aziraphale nearly gasped, casting around for something to seize on—metaphorically, of course. “What do you mean?” he said quickly, too quickly, before he could extract the something defensive from his voice.

“I’m not interested in making any judgment,” Oscar said. “But to you, I mean. What is he? Obviously some aristocrat, perhaps one a bit embarrassed by your connection? But I don’t need his name. Or title. What I want to know is, what is the connection?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale relaxed slightly. “He’s not...he’s not embarrassed. I don’t think. No.” Crowley had never cared what any human thought about him. “And he’s not an aristocrat. Exactly. Or at all.”

Oscar hesitated a moment. Then he spoke carefully. “I saw you, you know. Holding his hand when I first came into your shop. You looked very close. I was sorry to break up such an intimate moment. I hope he hasn’t held it against me.”

“He is my oldest friend,” Aziraphale said, stiffly.

“And that’s all?”

“Oh, yes. I mean... _yes.”_

“Are you quite sure?”

Aziraphale felt hot and flustered. He knew his face was red. Oscar was giving him that look again, like he saw something Aziraphale didn’t. He couldn’t answer. He nodded, his eyes burning.

“Is _he_?” Oscar asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes filled up and overflowed. Because that was it, wasn’t it. Oscar, couching things in such human terms. Because what he felt for Crowley was love, yes, and he knew Crowley loved him, too. But the way it had started to feel, the way it filled up every moment, the way _they_ occupied all of their time together, the way they couldn’t focus on anything except the two of _them_. That was more than just some undefined love. More than friendship, even. But then what was it? Because Aziraphale was an _angel_. Crowley was a _demon_. Which, well, the difference between them wasn’t the point, the point was that they were not human. This wasn’t some easy human thing, it wasn’t something that...Aziraphale didn’t know what it was, no matter what words Oscar wanted to put to it, so why did it matter to him what a human thought? Why did he _want_ to hear these insinuations? And why did it hurt so much when he did? Why did it hurt so much to feel like there was nothing he could _do_ with this love? Why ought there to be something done at all? It was only love. Only love! He had felt love his whole life, felt it with the whole of his being, for all kinds of beings. Why was this different? Why...was it just because Crowley was a demon? _No, no, that has nothing at all to do with anything_. Except that it did. But only sort of. And he was terribly, terribly embarrassed to cry like this, for himself, in front of this human, who couldn’t be even forty, who had probably thought of him as older, more worldly, without really having any idea just how true it was. And yet here he was, confused over something that seemed so simple to a human. But he wasn’t human. And so, what exactly was it then, that had him so confused?

“Oh, Mr. Fell,” Oscar said, grabbing his hand, “sometimes I speak when I shouldn’t. And I have not even cleverness to excuse me in this instance. Forgive me.”

“No, no. It’s quite all right, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He strode to his desk, took from it the little gold-embossed commonplace book with Oscar’s poem and handed it back to him. “Lovely thing,” he said. “I found no...improvements. Should we head out?” Aziraphale stared at the straggler in the shop, unblinking, until he seems to get the idea.

Aziraphale did not stay long at these dinners. The evenings may have started with just the two of them, or with just a few of Oscar’s friends, but they invariably turned longer, expanded. The conversation turning to literature, plays—all of which was lovely, but at some point, too much wine and opium in, things could take a turn, and Aziraphale often found that it was best for him to leave at that point, or even before. Tonight was no exception, not when he couldn’t untangle his mind from what had happened earlier. Before he went, he managed to speak to Oscar again, without anyone else hearing.

“I want you to meet him,” Aziraphale said. “Somewhere...that’s not my shop. Somewhere else. Here, perhaps.”

Oscar invited Aziraphale to his club. “I wasn’t sure it would be the thing,” he said. “Not until tonight, anyway. But I think the two of you would like it there. At least,” he added. “I think it might be good for you to come.”

* * *

So Aziraphale asks him. It’s not easy, but he does it. Crowley won’t hear him, has to pick a fight so that Aziraphale is nearly in tears, and it frightens him that Crowley is like this. Not that he’s frightened _of_ Crowley, but it’s so confusing. There have _been_ humans Aziraphale has been close to, protected, nurtured. Aziraphale is an angel. Crowley will have to understand that sometimes they’re drawn to him, that sometimes that’s just the way of it, and this, Oscar, is no different. _But what if he can’t? What if Crowley can’t understand it, can’t accept it?_

“Will you come?” Aziraphale says.

“If it’s you asking,” Crowley says, snide.

Aziraphale sighs, wringing his hands. “Well, of course I’m asking, Crowley. Of course it’s me asking you. Who else would it be?”

“Him!” Perhaps Aziraphale should not have passed on Oscar’s compliment. He hadn’t particularly wanted to, but he’d thought Crowley would like him more, if he knew Oscar said such things.

“What do you have against him?” he says, trying to stay calm so Crowley won’t get so defensive, but it doesn’t work.

“Why are you so…?” Crowley waves his hands, looking disgusted.

“So _what_?” Aziraphale says. “I can care about other people you know. I can have friends.”

“Yeah, of course. But when _have_ you? Not for years! Why do you suddenly need _friends_? I thought _we_ were friends. What’s happening, Aziraphale?”

It feels, with that question, like everything is spiralling in on him. Aziraphale has been wondering that, himself, hasn’t he? He could just as easily turn the question around on Crowley. He could just as easily have asked him that weeks ago, before Oscar even showed up. He could have asked him that, he realizes, months ago, years. Decades even. That day he’d lain his head in Aziraphale’s lap, and looked up at him, bold, almost defiant, after they’d walked hand-in-hand along the Seine, and he’d asked Crowley to take them home and he’d let Crowley in and kissed him (twice!) and Crowley had let him cover him with a blanket in his own tartan and it had been so lovely and now they _did such things all the time_ , and it was lovely every time, and made Aziraphale feel as if he’d burst...and oh, _no, no, no_. He can’t look at these things, can’t think about them, not directly, because then there’s that feeling again, the feeling of being trapped, of being stuck, even as he’s expanding, somehow, of being trapped in a too-small place, where he can’t be seen, not properly, and he _will_ burst.

So he says things, and they’re true, but _not_ —not _quite_ , not _exactly_ , because there’s something _else_...and Crowley feels bad and that makes Aziraphale feel better—not that he likes that Crowley feels bad, of course, but he does like it that he cares enough to want Aziraphale to feel better. And Crowley says sweet things and then tries to seem demonic, but then he hugs Aziraphale and holds him and kisses his forehead, and, as Aziraphale’s head swirls with confusion, Crowley agrees to come on Thursday night to Oscar’s club. But then he practically throws Aziraphale from the embrace and leaves. Again. Aziraphale feels cold and alone and he gives in to it now, and alone in his bookshop, he cries. If anyone had asked him why, he would have said that it was because Crowley had left. But surely that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

* * *

Crowley shows up in the afternoon, not yet gone on four o’clock. He’s in the waistcoat and hat again, and he strides straight into the back room, bold, as if he belongs there. He does. Aziraphale greets him with a smile. Aziraphale hasn’t bothered to open the shop that day.

“Angel?” Crowley says, and his voice isn’t tight and angry. “Can we...have dinner before we go?”

Aziraphale nods, caught unawares. He snaps his fingers to change his clothes, and they walk out together. Crowley offers him his arm, and Aziraphale takes it, smiling up at him. Crowley grins, looking satisfied with himself. Aziraphale had half expected Crowley to just meet him there, at the club, to stride in half an hour after Aziraphale did, commanding everyone’s attention and barely speaking to him. But it didn’t seem like that would be taking place after all.

The conversation over dinner is easy, nothing awkward or hurtful comes up, and it doesn’t feel like they’re trying to avoid the subject, either, of what they’re about to do. Occasionally Crowley will raise an eyebrow, and it reminds Aziraphale of the night ahead, and he feels jittery.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Aziraphale says, eating the last bite of his cod meunière. “I do miss you.”

“See me all the time, don’t you?” Crowley says.

“Not as much, no, these last few weeks.”

Crowley drinks his wine rapidly, pours himself another glass. Aziraphale hesitates, sighs, begins.

“I have friends sometimes, Crowley. People find me. Sometimes they need me, without really realizing it. You know? It—it doesn’t last very long. It’s my job. I have to do it. I like doing it. Remember—remember Shakespeare? We _both_ liked _him_ , didn’t we? I just haven’t as much this century or so.”

“Because of me.”

“Because things have been different for me. And yes, part of that is that you’re around more. But please don’t think that means I want you around _less_. I always want...” Aziraphale stops. _No, that’s too much._ An odd sentiment, even (especially?) for an angel, even for him. He reaches across the table and rests his hand over Crowley’s. “It’s better this way, with us together like this, I think. Don’t you?”

He feels ripped apart by the words, even as he says them. Because _is_ this better? If it’s better, why does it hurt so much? But it still doesn’t hurt as much as Crowley staying away. Nothing ever hurts like that. Not even Heaven’s silence.

When Crowley replies, “Yes, it’s better,” and threads their fingers together, he sounds like Aziraphale felt, like he’s holding something back. _What?_ Aziraphale thinks. _Why is it like this? Why does it feel so awful being with him sometimes, when it’s all I want?_

“So, will you...come back with me tonight? After?”

Crowley looks indulgent, like he’d agree to anything, but when he speaks, his voice is urgent, almost pained. “Of course. Anywhere you want to go.”

* * *

When they arrive, Aziraphale is holding Crowley’s arm, and they are not asked for passwords or any indicator that they have been invited, as Oscar had warned Aziraphale that they might be. A young man greets them at the door, far too enthusiastic, and Oscar is there, too, smiling, greeting Aziraphale, and looping an arm through Crowley’s, whisking him away. Aziraphale realizes that he is a bit drunker than he’d thought as he stares after his friend, who looks over his shoulder at him, raising a curious eyebrow.

Aziraphale lets the young man, Reginald, he’d said, lead him into a large ballroom, and is coaxed into a table for a round of whist while another group of gentlemen get up and begin dancing, cavorting around with each other in a way that’s...well, in a way that looks like fun. Aziraphale loses interest in the cards and watches them. Oh, he plays his hand, sips his absinthe, but when they finish the round, he excuses himself and drifts off to watch them.

“Do you dance, Mr. Fell?” asks Reginald, who has followed him.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says. He’s an angel. Angels don’t dance. Something twists inside him at the thought. Angels don’t. Angels. What sort of angel is he, really? Heaven does not talk to him. Heaven had never been pleased with him at all. And they have given him no direction at all for more than five hundred years. And he’s here, at this place, which he’s come to understand has some kind of _reputation_ , and he’s here with Crowley, a demon, and he lets Crowley...he lets Crowley—he _wants_ Crowley to stay with him at his bookshop, to stay with him always, really. Because Crowley is really very nice. And kind. And patient. And dear. And they do have so much in common. They do keep each other such good company. He would like to dance with Crowley, would like it, really a great deal. Do demons dance? They can probably do whatever they like. Except with angels, of course. Because angels don’t...dance. Especially not with demons. Well, or maybe...except for Crowley and Aziraphale. Because they’re...well, because it’s different with them. But Crowley isn’t here (where has he gone?), and Reginald is holding out a hand, and Aziraphale takes it, and follows him to the dance floor, and there’s a cheer for him, as if people are happy to see a new person there, a new person joining in. And he forces himself a little more sober, just a little more...there. Just enough to learn the steps, just enough to follow along. Aziraphale has always been a quick study, has always been more physical than he pretends, always holding himself in, holding himself still, almost as a challenge. Perhaps it will be good to apply that to something new.

Oh, good lord, what had he just been thinking? A great load of nonsense. A dim image of Crowley, holding his hands, smiling at him as the two of them whirl through a ballroom. How ridiculous. How Crowley would laugh at him if he knew.

Well, it isn’t as if Heaven is looking, he thinks, flashing a smile at the pianist, as the piano starts up again. What’s the harm? He takes Reginald’s arm. The steps come easily, and he pushes down the thought that they ought not to, pushes down the thought of what this says about him as an angel. Those things don’t matter. There’s so much that doesn’t really. So much he’d been told that isn’t really...true. Or significant.

So he whirls through the ballroom, giddy, his hands passing through Reginald’s, and Nigel’s, and...so many gentlemen. And then the dance is winding down, and they’re to return to their partners and...kiss them.

For some reason, Aziraphale feels horribly disappointed at the thought of this, of the thought of Reginald’s wet human lips on his. Ugh, _disgusted_ , he means, of course. Not disappointed, because _disappointed_ would imply that there was something he was _hoping_ for, when of course—

And then the door opens, and Oscar and Crowley are there, and Oscar is calling Reginald away, smiling slyly. Reginald looks put out, but he goes, gives Crowley a resentful, knowing look as he takes his place.

Aziraphale does not know how Crowley knows the last steps of the dance he has not observed. But when he goes to him at the end, he does not give him the light peck prescribed, does not lean into it salaciously, even, like some of the gentlemen do, if they’re attempting to show a real interest in their partner, or even just provoke a reaction from the room at large (that’s what the kissing is for, Aziraphale knows. Just an excuse to feel a bit debauched while doing nothing particularly sinful.). Instead, he leans forward and kisses Crowley’s lips tenderly, feeling them slot them against each other for just a moment, as Crowley’s mouth parts just a little under his. Oh, he hadn’t meant to do that. Had he done that? Or had Crowley? Does it even matter? It had felt nice. He feels Crowley twitch, as if he’s about to pull away, so he pulls him close, rests his head against his shoulder. And now Crowley holds him so tightly. Makes him feel so loved. Crowley. Everything about him is lovely. Perfect. Aziraphale doesn’t want anything else at all.

“Take me home?” he says.

“Of course, angel,” Crowley says. “Anything you want.”

* * *

It’s only about a fifteen minute walk back to the bookshop, but Aziraphale is very tipsy, and he seems reluctant to sober up. Worse still, for the prospects of a walk, he seems intent on plastering himself to Crowley’s side, holding his arm, sure, but also just, pressing into him, leaning on him, and smiling in a moony sort of way that Crowley is sure would mortify the angel if he could see it, how it looks, especially with the two of them coming out of here. Oh, god, he’d known it was a mistake, but he couldn’t have said no, not with how things had been lately.

Oscar walks them to the door, eyeing them in a way that looks...satisfied. Crowley still hates him, still wishes he would go.

“Shall I get you a hansom?” he drawls.

“I can get it,” Crowley says. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that, Anthony,” Oscar says. “See that you do.” And he _winks_ , and then he turns and starts up the hall, moving languidly. Crowley is furious. He does not like Oscar. He does not. But he has to admit that Oscar has style.

“ _Anthony_?” Aziraphale says, frowning.

“Ezra?” Crowley says, pointedly. “What’s the matter, you don’t like it?”

“No, it’s...oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, smiling. “I do so want to go back. I want to take you back, I want…” he reaches up, cups Crowley’s cheek. “You gorgeous creature.”

Crowley steps back, lowering Aziraphale against a wall so he can get some distance. When he’d seen Aziraphale there, dancing, looking so _happy_ he’d felt it too, he’d had no idea how drunk he was. When he’d gone to him for that kiss, he hadn’t been sure Aziraphale would do it, had thought Oscar was, perhaps, wrong, but Oscar had dared him, and he’d thought, all right, he won’t do it if he doesn’t want to, and then Aziraphale had kissed him like that, so happy and soft and full of the kind of _want_ that Crowley could feel, and he’d been so surprised his mouth had opened a little, just in surprise, and then, “Take me home...”

But Aziraphale is just drunk. He’s never been like this before. But that’s all it is. All it was. Crowley shouldn’t let this go to his head. Crowley had drunk with Oscar, enough to feel it, but not enough to lose his wits. He considers miracling himself completely sober. But he doesn’t want to do it alone, to be sober alone.

“Aziraphale, stop,” he says. “Look, let’s just...let’s just get in a cab. Sure you don’t want to sober up a little? Just a little?”

“No. Not yet. I feel nice, Crowley. I really do. Did you...did you have some absinthe?”

“Fuck. What did they do to you? Who gave you absinthe?”Had they planned to get him incapacitated? Had they planned it, thinking Crowley would just take advantage of him? And Aziraphale thinking Oscar was his friend?

“Only a little, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Not even a whole glass. I wanted to try it. I’m just so happy.” He reaches out and grabs Crowley’s hands.

“Let go,” Crowley says, pulling away, a horrible fear rising in him. How is he supposed to sit with Aziraphale alone back at the shop with him like this? “I’m just going to get a cab. You stay here.” He doesn’t wait, just pushes open the door and starts out.

“No. I’ll come out with you…” Aziraphale is following him. And that’s when Crowley realizes it—Aziraphale is walking just fine. He’d been _dancing_ , for Satan’s sake. If he wanted to hold himself up, he could. What if he’s not drunk? Crowley stops right there on the street and takes two deep breaths.

Fuck.


	5. To Dance Upon the Air (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what happens when Crowley and Aziraphale get back to the bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter I've had beta'ed! I'm so grateful for [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) and all her help and insights this past week!

Aziraphale is careful. In the cab, he sobers up a little more, lets Crowley stay pushed into his corner, away from him. He does not reach out to find his hand, but he wants to. His heart hammers and soars.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says. “It was a wonderful evening. Even if I didn’t see much of you once we’d arrived.”

“We’re still going to yours, aren’t we?” Crowley says.

Crowley brushes the tips of his fingers against the tips of Aziraphale’s. It’s not clear whether it was intentional or not, because he’s not looking at Aziraphale. He could have just shifted his hand on the seat between them and brushed him accidentally. And perhaps he did.

When they arrive, Crowley helps him out of the hansom and Aziraphale lets them into the bookshop, takes out the wine.

“You don’t need any more, angel,” Crowley says softly.

“Crowley. I am absolutely fine.” Aziraphale, feeling slightly annoyed at the demon’s overprotectiveness, opens the bottle, pours it into a glass, smells it. He gives Crowley a defiant glance and takes a long, heady sip.

“Then I’m going to need something stronger,” Crowley says. “Catch you up. Got any absinthe?”

Aziraphale scoffs. He rummages in his cabinet and pulls out a dusty old bottle of scotch, only about half full.

“I’m afraid it’s the best I can do,” he says. “But I’m really not very drunk at all.”

* * *

Crowley opens it, drinks right from the bottle. Just enough to handle this, he thinks. Not enough to lose control. Aziraphale joins him on the couch, leaning against him. For a moment they’re quiet. Crowley brings his hand up to touch the soft hair and Aziraphale _nuzzles him_ , his breath on Crowley’s neck. Crowley breathes, steadies himself, lets it happen. He knows Aziraphale is not drunk. But Crowley can sense his desire. It’s like there’s a chasm there between them and Aziraphale is desperate to cross it. It’s so hard for Crowley not to just reach across and pull. Probably, he thinks, he ought to go. Probably he ought to miracle them both sober and just go, never come back, not if this is what he’s done to the angel. But he’s not _sure_. Not exactly. After all, he’d never _tried_ to tempt Aziraphale. And sometimes whatever he feels coming from the angel doesn’t feel like that at all. Doesn’t carry the jagged, honeyed weight of imminent sin. And whatever he feels really doesn’t either, not that he’s he best judge of that. And Aziraphale _wants_ him to stay. He wouldn’t want it if it was wrong. (Or maybe his wanting it makes it not wrong?)

Everything about him is so sweet and simple. Not to imply that Aziraphale isn’t intelligent or nuanced, just that he’s straightforward in a way that Crowley isn’t, can’t be. Things are more natural for him, in a way.

Aziraphale starts to talk. Crowley listens and sips his scotch. Aziraphale tells him about Oscar’s writing, about his upcoming play, his book of short stories. There’s nothing in his voice, in his telling, that should bother Crowley. He sees that now. He’d just been so afraid Aziraphale wanted him to leave, so afraid Aziraphale was done with him, ready to move on to a new phase of their lives, their relationship. Get it back to normal perhaps. Or cut it out entirely. (Crowley has thought about what he’ll do then, take a house in the country, spread out instead of dividing his life between a cramped hotel suite and this bookshop. Have big, debauched parties. Invite everyone who’s anyone.) He’d been so afraid of it he couldn’t see how much it hurt Aziraphale when he’d kept his distance. No, he can’t leave. Whatever happens, he won’t do that tonight. He won’t hurt the angel again.

“He thinks,” Aziraphale says softly, “that we’re like him. That we’re like they are.”

Aziraphale has sat up slightly. His head isn’t against Crowley anymore, and Crowley withdraws his arm from around him, to let him move back if he wants to. Aziraphale adjusts a little, rests a hand on Crowley’s thigh.

“And does that...bother you?” Crowley says.

“Not at all. I do wonder sometimes.” Aziraphale sips his wine, but he still doesn’t seem drunk. Ironically, this makes Crowley want to be drunker. Why is he not drunk? He can’t handle this sober.

“What do you wonder, angel?” Crowley tilts the scotch bottle back into his mouth. There’s not much left.

“What it would be like. Sex, I mean.”

The scotch burns. Crowley wants to cough, but this is _not_ the time for it. His eyes are watering and he can barely breathe.

“Crowley?” The hand on his thigh grips. Crowley gives up and coughs. Aziraphale strokes his back, waiting for it to be over. Crowley feels like he’s on fire. “Have you ever done it?” Aziraphale asks.

“No,” Crowley sputters.

“Oh. Not even...” Aziraphale gives a coy little wiggle of his head.

“Oh. Yeah. I’ve tried touching _myself_. Just to see.”

“And what did you see?”

Aziraphale isn’t looking at him. He’s looking down...almost at Crowley’s lap. Which is not good, because. Or maybe it is. Good. Crowley doesn’t even know anymore. Crowley turns, faces him, bending one leg up onto the couch. He expects Aziraphale to withdraw his hand, but he doesn’t, and now it’s resting on his inner thigh, several inches above his knee, the pressure warm and light.

“ ’S nice enough. You’ve really never…?”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes. I have. Once or twice. Right after...when we went to the baths in Rome.”

“Just after we did? You were there for a while.”

“Yes, after you left. I felt...it was different with you there. But it was confusing. So I got rid of it. The...effort.”

Crowley tries not to think about this. He drinks more of the scotch.

“You’ve not done it since then?” he says. Aziraphale shakes his head.

“I haven’t felt that way since then. I mean, not often. Not until...” Crowley frowns. He tries to speak, but he can’t think of what it is that he means to say.

“Was it about me?” he asks, finally. “In Rome?” And he can’t move. Why had he said that? Of course it wasn’t about him, because if it were, Aziraphale would answer him, he would have said by now, that wasn’t what he’d said at all. Aziraphale is watching him. When he rests the scotch on the couch between them, Aziraphale takes the bottle from his hand and sets it on the floor, out of Crowley’s reach. Crowley feels naked without it, cold and hot at the same time.

“Crowley,” he begins, “why did you do that tonight? Why did you join the dance just then, and kiss me like that?”

“Kiss _you_?”

Aziraphale’s face reddens. (Now, after all this, _now_ , he’s embarrassed?)

“Yes,” he says. “You joined the dance just then. It was deliberate. You knew what would happen.”

“Forgive me,” Crowley says, sarcastically, “if I thought I’d spare you from that slimy little human who couldn’t wait to get his tongue down your throat. You didn’t have to kiss me. Which is what happened, for the record.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Aziraphale says. “I wanted to. And I liked it. It felt so nice.”

“ ’S what I _thought_.” Oh, Satan, why had he said that? But Aziraphale is laughing. Oh, God, what is happening?

* * *

Crowley sounds so proud of it. Aziraphale laughs. He rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder again, scooting closer, Crowley shifts so his legs are back to normal, so they can sit closer, but Aziraphale’s hands are on him properly now, squeezing his leg, tracing circles into it. “Not going to take it back? Do you _like_ knowing that it made me feel nice?” he says, curious.

“Aziraphale, _fuck_ ,” Crowley says. And he seems almost angry, Aziraphale draws back a little, watching him, the way the anguish fills his face. “Don’t _talk_ like that. My G—Satan, Aziraphale. Yes, I knew what would happen. I did it because I wanted to, all right? Is that what you want to hear? I _still_ want to. I want—Do you _know_ what I want? Fuck, Aziraphale. Rome? I mean, not since _Rome_ , really? And I _do_ think about _you_ when I—when I, you know. Fuck, I mean, I think about you all the time. You’re _all_ I think about. You’re the only one I’ve ever—oh, fuck. Fuck.” Crowley’s voice has gone soft, and he’s shaking now, his lips set in a grim line.

Aziraphale swallows. He bites his lip, and presses his hands to them. Oh, God. The feeling is flooding his body, setting it alight the way Crowley’s kiss had done. Crowley had _known_ , had been certain, so certain, this whole time of exactly what he wanted from Aziraphale. While Aziraphale had just dithered around, unsure what was happening, what he was feeling, telling himself he couldn’t, telling himself that love was love, that he felt love just like any other love, for Crowley, _from_ Crowley, and all this time, it had been growing and building and Crowley had _known_ what was between them, even as he’d just started to figure it out. Crowley loved him, yes, but there was something else there, interlaid with that love, woven in. _Desire._ And they both felt it, even if Aziraphale hadn’t recognized it in himself. Or in Crowley, for that matter. But he must have waited too long to respond because suddenly Crowley is moving, legs pushing up under him, hands out toward Aziraphale like a supplication and a warning.

“I’ll go,” Crowley says. “Fuck, angel. I misunderstood. I’m sorry. Oh...I’m sorry, angel. I’m _sorry_. You’re just drunk, you didn’t mean—you don’t want to hear this, I’ll just...go.” He starts to rise. Aziraphale grabs his hand.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Please, Crowley. I’m not...I’m really not drunk. I know what I’m doing, my dear. I know. I’m not trying to torture you. Just...exploring a bit. I didn’t realize you...”

Crowley is still shaking, all his muscles clenched. Aziraphale can’t stand the thought of how much he must hurt. He can feel the love from him, and it’s enormous. He’d been able to take comfort from that while he tried to understand what was happening between them. But Crowley couldn’t feel that. If he’d thought Aziraphale didn’t love him back, which he must have thought if he thought Aziraphale would send him away now—he must have suffered a long time. He reaches a hand—the one not on Crowley’s leg—up to his glasses. “Can I take these?” he says. Crowley nods. Aziraphale takes his glasses, lifts them off his face. Crowley’s large eyes are wide and snaky and wet. Aziraphale sets the glasses on a stack of books on the end table. Then he turns again, and gulps as he leans forward slowly, and kisses him, opening his lips very gently with his tongue. It’s different like this, wetter and softer. It does something to the inside of Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh, _angel_ ,” Crowley moans. It thrills through Aziraphale. He feels his body stirring, his _effort_.

“You like making me feel good,” Aziraphale says.

“Yes,” Crowley says, the word sounding wrenched from him, and there’s everything contained within that word. Aziraphale has never needed Crowley to tell him he loved him. He has simply known for a long time now. But there are other things he hadn’t known. Things he hadn’t known Crowley wanted, things he hadn’t known that _he_ wanted, things that are now within reach, and he, Aziraphale, won’t have to suffer anymore, not now that he knows. But Crowley has known all this time and suffered with it, able to feel Aziraphale’s desire, but not his love. He’d have thought he needed to resist his own feelings for Aziraphale’s sake. It’s not fair, he thinks, not fair to Crowley, and he won’t prolong it.

“You gorgeous creature,” Aziraphale says. “Show me.” Aziraphale slides his hand up from Crowley’s thigh to the buttons at the crease of his leg. “Would you show me what you do when you think of me?”

Crowley goes still. Then he’s a flutter of movement, turning his face to Aziraphale, studying him, mouth working silently; when he finally speaks, he says, his voice oddly high-pitched, “Are you sure? We don’t have to...go too fast, if you don’t want.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, nods. “If you want,” he says. “If you’d like to.” He feels nervous, but he wants this. He reminds himself that it’s just Crowley. And love. He likes both those things. This is all right, this is good.

Crowley sighs, a big, shuddering thing, and moves his fingers to the silver buttons at his hips. There are three on each side. He undoes them, flips down the front, flinching, as if he can’t even look at himself. But Aziraphale looks. He sees Crowley’s slim hips, a light dusting of red hair, his slender cock, partly erect. There’s a rush of something in Aziraphale’s chest, in his belly. He feels himself growing heated even as he wants to hold Crowley, to protect him and make him feel how treasured he is. He kisses Crowley’s cheek, the way he does when he stays the night, and Crowley relaxes a little.

“I’ve never really understood the appeal before,” Aziraphale says, “but you...I suppose I should have known that you’d be lovely there too.”

Crowley flinches. He wraps a hand around himself, gives a self-conscious stroke.

“Crowley, we don’t have to do this,” Aziraphale says.

“It’s not that,” Crowley says. “’S just... I’m not usually...being observed,” he says, sounding choked. He gives Aziraphale a look of forced nonchalance that he seems to realize isn’t very convincing. They both laugh. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker between the bobbing organ and Crowley’s face and something sizzles through him, a kind of burning, swooping through his gut.

“I see,” Aziraphale says. “Could I...help?”

* * *

Aziraphale reaches out toward him, his small hand hanging there in the air between them, nails clean and perfect. Crowley has looked at these hands thousands of times, has seen them bless and heal. One of them bears a Heavenly signet.

He nods. The angel’s hand is pretty, and Crowley knows that it is soft and warm. Crowley trusts him. He forgets why he shouldn’t, that fear of Aziraphale letting Crowley lead him to ruin. His heart pounds as Aziraphale strokes him like he’s a pet snake, an inexperienced finger sliding across the sensitive head, bending down toward him to see if there’s any response, and there is. Aziraphale gasps and wraps his hand around it, stroking the leaking head again with his thumb before sliding his hand back to the base and forward again. Crowley breathes hard, two sharp breaths, and his cock twitches, filling, pressing eagerly into Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale stills. Here it comes, Crowley thinks. And this time they won’t recover. Angels don’t _do_ things like this, so this is him, this is his fault. Aziraphale, though, doesn’t withdraw. Instead he looks up at Crowley and says, gently, “Oh, perhaps... _let’s_ sober up, Crowley. I think you’ve gotten drunker. I’m not sure if this is...”

Crowley shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m not drunk. If you want to stop—”

“No. That’s not it. But I would rather like for us to sober up. You can, my dear. Please?” Aziraphale kisses his cheek like his hand isn’t wrapped around Crowley’s cock, like it’s just another night and he’s about to tell him good night and go off and make a cup of cocoa. “It’s all right, I promise I won’t stop unless it’s what you want.”

Crowley doesn’t look at him.

He sobers up, because Aziraphale asks it. He tries to keep his body from quaking. Aziraphale is not so drunk, he knows, but he will push Crowley away now, with nothing easing this between them. It will happen—his hands will fly away from where they are now, will return to his face, like they had a moment ago, and he’ll say, “Oh, my. I’m an _angel_ , Crowley. An _angel_. What have you done to me?” And he’ll recoil. And that will be it. Almost six thousand years of friendship. Done. Gone. An angel. His _only_ friend. What _has_ he done? He gulps. But then he feels Aziraphale shift next to him, but his hand stays where it is.

“There now? Still all right? Do you still want this?” Aziraphale says, his careful voice vibrating through them. Crowley nods. Aziraphale’s hand moves, stroking Crowley’s length slowly again. “You see? Isn’t that better? Don’t you _feel_ it more now?”

Crowley gives another of the embarrassing, gasping breaths. “Yess,” he hisses. “Ngk.” His breath hitches.

“All right?” Aziraphale whispers again. He’s so careful. Why is he so careful?

Crowley nods.

“Good.” Another slow stroke. “Stay there now.” Aziraphale lets go of him and Crowley winces. He watches the angel stand, then fold himself onto the floor. He’s speechless as Aziraphale moves between his legs, looks up at him, questioning. “Would you like me to put my mouth on you?”

“Angel, what...you don’t have to—”

“I know. I _want_ to. Would you like me to? You can say no, Crowley. It’s all right to say no. I only want to make _you_ feel good.”

“Aziraphale. Fuck. _Yes_ , all right? Yes.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I think I do know that, yes,” he says, his mouth so close Crowley can feel his breath there. He puts a hand on Crowley’s trousers and tugs them down further, Crowley shamelessly lifting his hips to make it easier. Aziraphale blushes, and looks down as he miracles the trousers away, leaving Crowley sitting half-naked on his couch, suddenly cold and feeling very exposed. Crowley stares as Aziraphale moves forward between his legs, trailing soft fingers over his thighs, and looking at them, looking at Crowley like he’s some lovely new place they’ve gone together. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “Oh, Crowley, how could I have been so foolish not to see?” he kisses each thigh, just a press of his lips, but Crowley’s body jerks and quivers at it. Aziraphale sighs and presses a finger to the tip of Crowley’s cock, drags it over the weeping opening, looking at it like he wants to explore it, dip into it and see what’s inside. And then he places his warm hands on Crowley’s thighs and bends forward. The feel of his breath there makes something in Crowley’s stomach flutter. He gasps.

“All right?” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale opens his mouth slowly and slides over the tip of him, tongue probing at the opening. Crowley feels himself filling up with the heat, like it’s lighting him like a candle. Aziraphale moves his hand back again to the base, and grips him there.

Crowley’s eyes close, his mouth flies open, his head suddenly pushing against hte back of the couch, and he groans. _This cannot be happening._

“Where the actual _fuck_ , Aziraphale…where did you learn how to...I’ll kill him.”

Aziraphale slides his mouth off of Crowley with a little laugh. “I’ve seen things, Crowley, but I’m quite untested. You will tell me if I do something wrong.” His tongue darts out again and slides around the base, licks along the underside of Crowley’s cock. Crowley’s fingers grapple on the cushions of the couch, his head thrown back. He struggles to keep his hips still as Aziraphale slides his mouth back over him, taking all of him this time, his tongue still working as he slides back and forth, finding a rhythm, the wet sounds punctuating his movements. Crowley hisses, doesn’t even notice that it has turned into an embarrassing whine until it’s been going on too long to do anything about it and he’s screaming. _Still, still_ , he thinks keeping his hips on the couch. _Don’t move too much, don’t go too fast._

“Angel, angel.” There’s a hand on his hip then, his bare hip, sliding back over his thigh, over and over, soft, warm, firm, gentle. Crowley looks down at him with full eyes and then he’s coming, oh, Satan, he’s coming. He reaches for Aziraphale, maybe trying to warn him, he doesn’t know, but the angel just nods, his eyes crinkling around the edges with understanding and pleasure, pupils dilated, and he keeps moving, moaning around Crowley as he swallows.

When it’s over, Aziraphale kisses his spent cock and sits next to him on the couch. He kisses the snake sigil on his face and strokes his hair. Crowley turns toward him and pulls him into a kiss, slipping his tongue into his mouth (because why not, at this point?) and tasting himself there. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop kissing him. But Aziraphale pulls back, eventually, resting their foreheads together. Crowley turns his face away, buries it in Aziraphale’s collar.

“How was it?” Aziraphale whispers. “Was it as nice as you imagined?”

Crowley can’t speak. He only lets out a whimper and tightens his arms around Aziraphale. He wishes he could open up and and take him in, keep the angel safe inside him forever.

* * *

Aziraphale’s body hums. He feels dazed, his mouth a little sore, and his effort...stiff and damp. He feels a bit as if something has come loose inside of him.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale says, rubbing Crowley’s back, pressing into him.

Crowley’s head moves against him. Aziraphale realizes he’s nodding. “God, yes. But I didn’t think you...oh, _fuck_ , angel. Is this...is this really...I mean, isn’t it a sin or something? Lust? Aren’t you...? You’re all right? You’re really all right?” When he looks at Aziraphale, his eyes are wet.

“Oh, my dearest. Of course I am. You were so gentle and careful. Always thinking of me. Shh,” Aziraphale says, stroking his hair. His own body feels so sensitive, so alive, everywhere Crowley is touching. He wants more, so much more, but he doesn’t know how to get from here to there, doesn’t know how to say he wants it when this is how Crowley is acting, like it _hurts_ him that Aziraphale wants him. The love is pouring off Crowley in waves. “Don’t say that. It’s not wrong. It’s not a sin. We...love each other, don’t we?”

“Did I tempt you?” Crowley whispers. “I wanted you for so long. But I didn’t ever mean to...Aziraphale, if you didn’t want to do that—It’s not exactly what’s meant by angelic love, you know.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t you know how I adore you? I’ve known you for nearly six thousand years. I’ve done temptations too. I know how they work. Have you _ever_ accidentally tempted someone into something they didn’t want to do?”

“Well, I mean, it’s possible. Hastur and Ligur...I mean, if you implant thoughts. _I_ don’t, though, not as such. Don’t like it. I mean, I don’t make people do anything they don’t _want_ to—not really fair then is it? No fun. But sometimes they just _respond_ to me a certain way. Maybe it amounts to the same thing.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Crowley, no. That’s not you _doing_ something. That’s not forcing anything. That’s just, well, you’re _lovely_...We both wanted this, didn’t we? _Don’t_ we? It’s not wrong, my dear. It’s not wrong. Please. Tell me you see that.”

Crowley nods. He lets out a long, shaky breath, quivering against Aziraphale. He’s seems so fragile, so delicate. It’s dizzying how much Aziraphale loves him, how many ways. “Yeah,” Crowley says. “But does that mean I can...would you let me… Angel, can I touch you? Is that really—would you really want that?”

Aziraphale turns his head and presses his lips to Crowley’s neck. He lets his tongue dart out and taste the flesh there. Crowley’s skin is taut and smooth and just slightly salty. The demon gasps, clinging to him, pressing their chests together and breathing him in. He’s almost pushing him down, almost, but he’s waiting for something, Aziraphale realizes, waiting for him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, as their hearts beat together. “Please touch me.”

* * *

Crowley kisses him. Kisses his mouth, his face, his neck. He pauses, tolerant and puzzled at first, then disbelieving while Aziraphale carefully touches his face, his eyes. Then the angel parts his lips with a finger and strokes inside his mouth until Crowley’s tongue darts out. Aziraphale gasps because it’s gone all serpent and Crowley’s face burns. He almost recoils preemptively, afraid if he doesn’t, Aziraphale will push him away, but Aziraphale only looks hungry and says, “I thought so,” and kisses him deeply, pushing his body against Crowley in a way that makes it very obvious that he doesn’t mind at all. Something shatters in Crowley then, and he doesn’t let himself think before he bends, kissing and licking along Aziraphale’s collarbone, throwing off the angel’s cravat he’s miracled undone, and starting on the waistcoat. Aziraphale is squirming, pushing into him, and Crowley lets his hand trail down his ample middle, brushing over his lap.

“Take them off,” Aziraphale says, pushing at Crowley’s waistcoat, tugging at his necktie, both absurdly still in place. “You can take them off me as well. Everything.”

“I want to, want to make it lassst for you,” Crowley says, miracling his own clothing away.

But Aziraphale tightens against him when he gets the angel’s waistcoat off, opens his shirt and seizes on a nipple, serpentine tongue twisting and jerking against the hardening nub of flesh. He kisses the dip at the center of his chest, down to his stomach, stroking the smooth skin at the small of his back, licking his soft abdomen, and opening the first buttons at Aziraphale’s waist, left, right.

“Oh, _Crowley_ , I can’t, I can’t _last_... _oh.”_

There’s enough space now for Crowley to slide a hand into his trousers. He does, finds him hard, damp and dripping, holds him in his hand a few seconds before he starts to move with firm, gentle strokes for Aziraphale, nothing but care and softness for him, one, two, three; Crowley kisses his soft stomach, flicks his tongue over the pale hair there. Crowley whispers as Aziraphale’s curls up under him, rigid and making tortured little noises that make Crowley hard all over again.

“Just like that, angel. Just like that. Yes, all right, that’s it. Yes, that’s perfect. Perfect.”

“Ohh,” Aziraphale collapses against him, over him, their upper bodies folded over each other. Crowley withdraws his hand, covered with Aziraphale’s come, then opens the second button, the third.

Aziraphale moans. Crowley pushes open the trousers, Aziraphale sits up, straightens his body, and Crowley places a hand on his shoulder, gently eases him back until he’s lying on the couch. Aziraphale’s cock is still straining, pushing up toward his own chest.

“Again?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, please,” he whimpers. He trails a hand down Crowley’s chest. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. Crowley takes off Azirphale’s shoes, undoes the stays holding his socks in place and eases them off. He slides the trousers and undergarments down thick, trembling thighs and straddles him, pinning him in place, kissing down his body until he’s licking him clean, kneeling at his feet and pressing his tongue into him until Aziraphale is writhing and moaning again, his hands tangled in Crowley’s hair. He doesn’t know what to ask for, yet, Crowley thinks. Doesn’t know quite when to ask, or what to say. But he will. Crowley takes him into his mouth this time, slurping greedily, making a show of it. Aziraphale watches him, wide-eyed. He lets Aziraphale haul him into his arms when he’s done and bring him off with his hand, soft and quick, Crowley gasping because he’s so close already. After, Crowley doesn’t move, except to miracle away the mess from their bodies, from Aziraphale’s despoiled couch.

Aziraphale kisses his forehead.

“That was extraordinary,” he says. “I had no idea.”

Crowley tries to agree, but just makes an embarrassing little noise.

“I didn’t know,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley, I’ve been so...I really didn’t know how much you—how much we both wanted that.”

“I know.”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale says, “I can sense certain things, but not others. I can feel how much you love me. I didn’t know what it meant, Crowley. I’m sorry. I can...feel that though, I mean, I can sense it. Can you...sense how much I want you?”

“For a long time now. I thought I was tempting you.” Crowley says. “Thought I must be. So I didn’t want to...ask for too much. But I don’t think I can ever stop wanting you.”

“Well, that won’t be necessary. This is...the most treasured thing I have ever experienced. Not something I would wish away. Not if...not if it’s what we both want.”

“It is.”

“Oh, good. I love you very much, my dear. And I will do everything I can to make sure you know it as surely as I know your love for me. My wanting to do that—my desire for you—is not something you’ve _done_ to me.”

Crowley closes his eyes and rests against him; they’re on Crowley’s couch, the couch where the demon sleeps when he stays, and he’s never imagined that Aziraphale would actually sleep here with him, but the hand in his hair stills, the body cradling his loosens, and Crowley tightens his arms around him: Aziraphale, bare and soft against him, and asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: explicit sexual content, sex with alcohol involved (though it's not drunk sex, and it's very consensual).
> 
> I realize it was probably super obvious where this was going, and not necessary to put the cw at the end of the chapter, but I thought I might preserve a _little_ suspense.


	6. To Dance Upon the Air (Part III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting back to basics with the angst this chapter, also beta'ed by the wonderful [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: explicit sexual content; discussions of sex acts; references to sexual shame and homophobia; homophobic language in the end notes (in a quote); history (actual research!)

When Aziraphale wakes, he’s beneath a tartan blanket and a demon. He stirs slightly, but the demon does not move. He smiles, sighs happily. The room is dark, the skylight obscured by what must be several inches of snow. Aziraphale smells cocoa. He kisses Crowley’s head.

“Come now, Crowley,” he says. “I know you’re awake.”

Crowley speaks without opening his eyes. “I’m not moving. Drink your cocoa.”

Aziraphale shifts, moving into a sitting position first, then sliding out from beneath the lanky, delicate form of the demon, who, true to his word, has made no effort at movement.

Aziraphale has not contemplated the apparent fragility of Crowley’s body for more than five hundred years, and now his breath catches at the sight of him there, the light feel of him, a collection of skin and bones, who had lain there all night, pressed into his arms. How would it seem, he wondered, to Hell, to find him here in this state? Would they try to defend Crowley against him, or would they only seek to destroy? After all, Crowley wasn’t actually fragile. But he did look that way. Though Aziraphale supposed, one might say the same of him. Oh, in a different way, certainly. But unless he really wanted to, he knew he didn’t convey the impression of someone who was much of a threat. He wonders if he’d have the courage to use the holy water if it came to that. He’d do anything for Crowley, of course, but, well, Aziraphale has never killed _anything_. And the idea of using holy water against a demon feels wrong somehow, because _Crowley_ is a demon, so they can’t all be simply evil, awful soulless things? And he remembers the way Crowley had seemed so surprised when he’d mentioned it, tries not to think of how Crowley had thought he’d intended to use it on him. But what if there’s something else about him that threatens Crowley, just by existing as part of him, a holy creature? Or the reverse? If there’s something infernal he just doesn’t know about? And this is exactly the sort of thing they’d be expected to know about each other if Heaven or Hell were ever to check in. If they were ever supposed to treat each other as rivals, to discuss each other that way. But for some reason, that idea doesn’t scare him as much as it should. Instead, it amuses him a little, and he looks over at Crowley again, and the sight makes him feel warm and fluttery. They have no clue how to discuss each other as enemies; they’ve never bothered to learn each other that way, each preferring instead to learn the things the other likes, his way of being in the world, and after last night, the taste of the other’s mouth, the sounds he makes in pleasure.

Reluctant, for some reason, to dress himself, he miracles a thick flannel tartan bathrobe and sips the cocoa warily—Crowley doesn’t eat much, doesn’t appreciate the gustatory as Aziraphale does. But it’s perfect—milky, melted chocolate with a hint of lavender. Oh yes, Crowley has studied him, learned what he likes, and improved upon it.

He sighs with it again, the happiness. No, this is bliss. It would be well if he could avoid thoughts of Hell, and threats. But...perhaps for today it would be just as well if they stayed inside and enjoyed each other. It’s quiet outside, and Crowley has made it clear that he’s not moving. Though Aziraphale feels sure he’ll revise that assertion eventually.

He sits down, turns to his books—a new volume of poetry Oscar had suggested by an American author called Whitman. He’s reading when Crowley does wake, when Crowley calls out, “Aziraphale,” as if from a very great distance, and reaches out a hand, as if he’s unable to rise. Aziraphale scoffs, but he goes to him, of course he does, sits in front of his reclined body on the couch, and Crowley wraps his bare arms around him from behind, sitting up and resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He’s heavy this way; Aziraphale wonders if he’s trying to pull him down, coax him into another round of their activities from the night before. But Crowley doesn’t stay that way for long. Aziraphale looks around at him and finds him looking toward his clothes from the night before, scattered over an armchair in the corner. Oh. Oh no.

“Do you...want to go, Crowley? I—mean, do you need some time?”

“No,” Crowley says. He tightens his arms around Aziraphale and kisses the top of his head. Aziraphale feels a flare in his chest, something warm and soft and bold. “No...that all right?”

“Oh, good. Then...perhaps we might just stay here and...enjoy each other,” Aziraphale’s breath catches. Crowley is stroking his hair. He closes his eyes and leans back, pressing into him.

“We’re the only ones who’ve ever done this, aren’t we?” he says, a tremor in his voice. Wonder and something else.

“Well, I mean, not like they’d tell us, if someone else did,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s ear.

“No. No, quite, but do you think that anyone else—”

“No.” Crowley kisses his cheek “Is it still all right, angel?”

“I love you, Crowley. But it _is_ frightening, yes. Because I think it means we’re really on our own now, doesn’t it? On our own side, so to speak?”

“We always have been, Aziraphale. Always...now. Let me do something about this _situation_ ,” Crowley says, gesturing to Aziraphale.

“What situation?”

“If you don’t want me to leave, angel, I am not looking at that all day.” And he stares at Aziraphale’s tartan robe until it changes to something in cream quilted satin with tartan only at the collars and sleeves, and when Aziraphale looks back up at him, he finds Crowley in a thick robe of his own, in quilted black silk. Aziraphale adds red paisley brocade, and for some reason, finds that he suddenly wants to cry, but instead he flings himself at Crowley and they kiss and kiss and then it all gets a bit heady again, and Crowley pins him down, not like the night before where he’d only been sort of straddling him, but with no force—this time he’s actually holding Aziraphale’s arms down, and Aziraphale likes it because he isn’t supposed to let it happen, isn’t supposed to let his enemy do exactly this, but of course it doesn’t mean...and he starts laughing, then realizes that Crowley might be offended, but Crowley just smiles indulgently and kisses his neck in a way that tickles, and makes him laugh harder, and says, “What, angel?”

“We’ve never been proper enemies, have we? I mean, we don’t even know what sort of opponents we’d be.”

“Is that really something you want to know?”

“Well...” Aziraphale says. “It’s only that I’m curious if you’re as fragile as you look.”

“ _Fragile_ ,” Crowley snaps, but he’s not really angry. Aziraphale blinks innocently at him until he rolls his eyes and laughs. “Where is this coming from, Aziraphale?” His hands relax on Aziraphale’s arms, no longer holding them in place.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Crowley. I know you’re not actually defenseless. It’s just that I want to know if something I did might hurt you. What we did last night--we didn’t even know, really, if it was safe, if it was possible. And sometimes I do think, well, we don’t know each other at all the way we’re supposed to. As enemies, I mean.”

“What do you _want_?” Crowley says. Aziraphale’s heart is pounding. He fidgets underneath Crowley until the demon starts to withdraw, to sit up.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale says. “I want you. But I want to...I want to know if you could resist me, or the reverse. I want to know how strong you are. Just to know, Crowley. Not to...to _do_ anything with it.”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley, then eases him down holding his shoulders gently. Crowley hesitates, then surges up, biting Aziraphale very gently under the chin. It feels good; doesn’t hurt at all. There won’t even be a mark. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, shaking his head.

“No, not to _hurt_. I don’t want to _hurt_ you, Crowley.”

“You want to know if you could? You want to know if we’re even. If we’re the same.”

Aziraphale nods.

“Do you want to try...bondage or something?” Crowley says.

“What? No. I _like_ what we’re doing, but this is _separate_ from that. I don’t find this topic particularly _erotic_. Unless you do? I just want to know.” He kisses Crowley’s lips, a peck. “That’s the part I like. Knowing. Knowing you.”

“Maybe just...don’t worry about it?” Crowley says, licking the spot he’d bitten, leaning in and kissing Aziraphale’s neck, just behind his ear. “We’re not enemies, Aziraphale. We’ve never been enemies. The pretending is for them, not for us.” Aziraphale is silent. Crowley watches looks up at him, then reaches back up and pulls him in again, kissing the same spot. “Don’t worry about it,” he says again, his breath hot against Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale groans, thrusts against Crowley’s knee, which is now wedged between his legs.

“Would you want to be inside me?” Crowley suggests, sliding a hand down Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale stills, suddenly unsure. “It’s OK, angel. You won’t hurt me,” Crowley says.

“Oh. I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. “Not when we’ve just been discussing...things. I don’t want to feel as if I’m doing things _to_ you. I don’t want you to think that’s what I want.” He lifts a hand to Crowley’s hair, his touch gentle.

“I know it’s not. Should we stop?”

“No. Just let’s not do that. Not now. Later perhaps. If you like.”

Crowley nods. “This OK, then?” he says. His pupils are dilated, face slack, as he moves, straddling him again, pushing his legs together and lying down against him, sliding his cock between Aziraphale’s legs and thrusting slowly against them. Aziraphale gasps.

“Yes. Oh...I rather think you ought to be inside _me_ , dear,” Aziraphale says, moving against him.

“Ngk…” Crowley suddenly goes rigid.

“Oh, is that what you want? Is it? Oh, it’s perfectly all right, my dear.”

“No, no.” Crowley says. “I can’t. I can’t. This is, oh, God. Aziraphale...”

But Aziraphale thinks he can, because he doesn’t stop moving against him, and suddenly it’s hot and wet and Crowley is gasping, his slim body stiff and shaking against Aziraphale. Aziraphale holds him close, stroking his sinewy back and meeting his thrusts, his own cock thrumming eagerly against Crowley’s skin as Crowley’s breath quickens and catches. “There,” Aziraphale whispers. “You’re so lovely, Crowley. I love seeing you like this. _Having_ you like this. I feel so close to you. To everything you are. Do you know how beautiful you are?”

“Let’s see to you…” Crowley hisses, starting to move his body down, already lowering his head.

“Wait,” Aziraphale says, he puts one hand on Crowley’s shoulder and reaches the other down into the pool of come between his legs where Crowley’s cock is still nestled. “Like this,” he says, grasping their cocks together. “Bring me off with your spend.”

“Oh fuck,” Crowley says. He’s hard again, and thrusting already into Aziraphale’s hand. “Oh, angel...fuck. How do you—” His hand wraps around Aziraphale’s, hot and dry. “Let me.”

* * *

“What did you mean,” Aziraphale says, two days later, “When you said you can’t?”

They’re lying in the tiny bedroom above the bookshop, where Crowley had never been until they’d decided that the couch and the floor of the back room had put them through quite enough during what was clearly no longer unexpected, impromptu lovemaking. They haven’t left the building since the hansom had delivered them after Aziraphale’s adventures with absinthe and dancing.

Crowley’s now used several miracles to clear dust and books from this so-called living area, and make the bed there habitable. And, well, nice. The mattress and pillows have been made clean and soft, the sheets are gold satin, the bedcover black and gold brocade. It is Aziraphale’s bed, but Crowley’s there, too, and it had been his miracle. He figured it ought to suit them both.

Crowley is lying in Aziraphale’s arms, blissful and spent. And, well, slightly sore. And he knows exactly what question Aziraphale is asking him, but he has no idea how to answer it.

The problem is that he’s afraid Aziraphale is going to be angry. Because this time when he’d asked Aziraphale to come inside him, Aziraphale had nodded, Aziraphale had said, “only if you’re sure you want to.” And Crowley had been on top of him, so he’d taken care of everything, he’d miracled up some oil, had applied it to himself, opened himself up, and, well, _taken_ him. Aziraphale had groaned with the pleasure, the tightness so intense he’d said, that he was afraid to move, so at first Crowley had done that for him too. “You won’t hurt me,” he said. “It’s all right, Aziraphale, it feels good...it feels so good.” Aziraphale had started to move then, just a little, so slow and gentle, holding Crowley in his hand and stroking him firmly as he did.

“You’re _exquisite_ ,” Aziraphale had whispered, like it was a secret. And then they’d come together, Aziraphale’s eyes going wide when Crowley came across his chest (Crowley had panicked slightly--he hadn’t foreseen this, somehow, and it seemed like it might be rude, but Aziraphale hadn’t minded), and they’d lain there a few moments in silence after Crowley miracled them clean.

And it _had_ felt exquisite.

But he can’t fuck Aziraphale. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. Aziraphale had not been wrong about what that suggestion had done to him. And it has nothing to do, either, with whatever Aziraphale had been trying to get at about not knowing each other’s defenses, each other’s limitations. After a couple of days to think on it, he understands what the angel had meant by that, even if it had come out a bit confused.

No, the problem is that Aziraphale is an angel. An agent of Heaven. And if something were to...happen to him, to his body—something big, like discorporation or serious damage, Heaven would recall him, recall the body. And then, there are bound to be certain things that would invite questions.

This, what they’re doing, is reckless. But if there’s no _proof_ of anything...Crowley doesn’t know how to say this to Aziraphale. He doesn’t even know how to tell him that he’s _sore_. It had felt so good he’d overdone things a bit, perhaps, without realizing it. It’s not a bad ache, really. In fact, in a weird sort of way, Crowley likes it. But if it had been the other way around...

“Crowley?”

“If I hurt you—”

“You _won’t_ —”

“Even just a little—”

“Did _I_ hurt _you_?” Aziraphale says, pointedly. Crowley hesitates.

“If I’m hurt I did it to myself, didn’t I? Did most of the _moving_. I’m fine.”

Aziraphale goes silent. Crowley presses his eyes closed. “Hey—”

“Was it all right?” Aziraphale says, voice pinched. “I could heal you.”

“I’m _fine_.” Crowley pushes his body against him, wraps his arms around him. “It was _wonderful_ , angel. So good. It _didn’t_ hurt.” He kisses Aziraphale’s neck, his hair, feels him relax a little.

“So then why is it all right for me to do, but not you? I’m the one who’s an—”

“Don’t. Hey.” Crowley reaches for his hand, but Aziraphale pulls away, sits up, twisting his body away. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale does not move. Crowley sighs. Maybe it will be easier to talk to his back.

“Listen,” he says. “Your body...holy vessel and all that.”

Aziraphale is looking at him now, resentfully.

“Look, if anyone found out—” he begins, but Aziraphale gives a great sigh and says,

“Why would they find out? Crowley—why would _that_ be the thing they found out? After everything else we’ve done...more than a thousand years of _the Arrangement_ and you _sleeping_ here more often than not for the better part of the century...our particular _style_ of bodily congress, I think, should be the least of your worries, when no part of any of our...fraternizing...is condoned by Heaven.”

“Fraternizing?” Crowley laughs, because it’s ridiculous, because it’s uncomfortable. He thinks Aziraphale will laugh too.

“Well, whatever you wish to call it,” Aziraphale says, instead. It’s the tone that does it. Indulgent, patronizing, as if Aziraphale is thinking, _all right maybe not_ fraternizing _exactly, but something_ like _that_ , as if Crowley’s being picky, splitting hairs. As if they both know that this is what he’s doing, and Aziraphale is just tolerating it for the sake of continuing the conversation. “Besides,” Aziraphale says, “might I remind you that I am capable of healing myself, in the event of any damage?”

But Crowley doesn’t register this. The words don’t land like words usually do. Crowley knows it’s irrational, but he feels his chest starting to close in on itself. And he is completely losing the entire train of what he was trying to say, but if they don’t stop here and sort this one out there will be no point, no point in anything. “Fraternizing. _Aziraphale_? Aziraphale, look...don’t say that. Look. I thought...”

There’s a rustle beside him, a sharp intake of breath, and Crowley feels himself hauled into soft, warm arms, his head pressed against Aziraphale’s pillowy, downy chest.

“No...no, my dear. No. Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean that—I meant only—well, it’s what _they’d_ see, if they found out, oh, no, no, Crowley.”

“We’re on _our_ side,” Crowley says, voice like a growl, something monstrous and humiliating leaking out, and he knows they are, he knows it; he’s just waiting for the air to come back to his lungs.

“We are. We are. Shhh. We are.”

“I love you,” Crowley says, ashamed. “I know I didn’t say it. I never said it. I love you. I love you.”

“I know. You didn’t say it because you didn’t have to. That’s my job, Crowley. I’m so sorry. I love you. You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he says.

“I shouldn’t have used that word. It was very wrong of me.”

They’re silent again. And Aziraphale doesn’t move, doesn’t touch him aside from where they’re pressed together. Crowley supposes he’s annoyed again, now that Crowley’s dramatic meltdown is over. He searches for the right words.

“Listen, Aziraphale, if something happened to you...if you were discorporated, or Heaven recalled you...I don’t want to’ve left some mark on you. Something they can find and use against you.”

“You’re afraid they wouldn’t send me back to Earth?”

Crowley scoffs. “I’m afraid they’d _punish_ you. Make you Fall, torture you, destroy you, Aziraphale!”

“Oh, no. That won’t happen. Well, I suppose I could Fall. But it seems very unlikely. And not without any warning. They don’t do things like that, Crowley. Torture, do you really think? It’s _Heaven_.”

“Excuse me if I don’t take a lot of comfort from that. Look, we’re protecting ourselves from Hell, but—you don’t seem to realize what _you’re_ potentially up against.”

“Because they actually read your reports. Trouble to send you assignments! Heaven doesn’t seem to _care_ what I’m doing as long as I don’t let things go completely off the rails. And maybe not even then. Haven’t tried that one yet, you see. You know, that entire time at the monastery—admittedly, I didn’t tell them about you—but I _told_ them I was _cursing_ the books! All I got was a few notes in the margins about methodology and results. Not even a censure!”

Crowley winces. Heaven is really not making much of a case for itself. Though the curses he’d used had been barely strong enough to even register as occult. And Aziraphale’s sweet little ethereal things... “Fine. Aziraphale. Maybe. You—you could be right. But if they knew what you were _actually_ doing now, they _would_ care. So let’s just make sure they don’t find out.” He picks up Aziraphale’s hand and kisses it. “Come on. There are so many other things we can do.”

* * *

“My dear boy, it’s entirely inaccurate!” Aziraphale pushes the sheaf of papers back across the table in the cafe where he’s met Oscar. He’d been glad to get the invitation, not least because Oscar’s book of short stories, released a year ago in 1890, had been _selling_ and he needed to attempt to replenish his stock, but Oscar had only pushed a bag containing a few copies of his newest novel across the floor to him before slapping down a sheath of papers on the table and asking Aziraphale’s opinion of them—his new play, he’d said. And Aziraphale...does not approve.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Fell,” Oscar says indulgently. You don’t imagine that I hunkered down over a bible and set to work producing a piece of pageantry? Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

“Oh, no, not at all. But...I don’t mean that it’s inconsistent with the _bible_. Crowley and I—well, we could tell you all sorts of things about how accurate _that_ is in the first place. No, I mean that it doesn’t reflect the truth about real life, a real person. You’ve made her out to be so…” Aziraphale waves a hand. “Well, _conniving_.”

“Art is art. We both know that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Well,” he says. “It’s clever. As usual.”

“How _is_ Crowley?” Oscar says. Aziraphale notes how he’s reverted to Mr. Fell, even after having been granted _Ezra_ , how he’s reverted to Crowley, even after being offered _Anthony_ , and smiles. “I should like to give him a copy as well of the novel. It’s been too long, since I’ve seen him. Not since dinner—what, nearly six months ago now. Do the two of you still—?”

Aziraphale’s face feels hot. _As if that could ever be a question_ , he thinks. “I can give him a copy. If you like,” he says as he bends over and opens the bag on the floor. Opening the clasp, he draws out one of the books Oscar had brought for him to sell at his shop. And he would, of course, after he’d squirrelled away a copy or two for his records.

He flips it open, scans the preface, reads aloud: “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.”

“My dear boy! That wasn’t _quite_ what I meant when I said that.”

“It was,” Oscar says. “You knew what we were talking about. You read the book in question.”

“It seems shorter than I’d have expected it to be bound,” Aziraphale says, turning the slim volume over in his hands.

“Yes. They _excised_ some of it. Whole chapters.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinks. He can’t say, honestly, that he’s surprised. The book had been...bold. Doubtless it still is, even with some of the bolder portions removed. He sets the book down on the table and runs his fingers over the embossed leather of the cover. “Be careful, Oscar,” he says. “You have a tendency to take my advice in an entirely different spirit than the one in which it was intended.”

Oscar laughs.

* * *

They are invited to the premiere of Oscar’s new play a few years later. It isn’t _Salome_ , which legally can’t be played in England, about which Aziraphale seems unaccountably relieved. “It was just very unfair, really,” he says. “The portrayal.” Crowley rolls his eyes, then uses a miracle to make sure no one is looking before kissing the angel’s cheek. He doesn’t expect Aziraphale to turn and kiss him back, deeply, sucking his tongue into his mouth.

“Angel, angel, we’re in public.”

“I felt your miracle,” Aziraphale says. “I know no one can see.”

Crowley kisses his cheek again, letting his tongue dart out to taste the soft, pink skin there. “Tonight,” he promises.

Aziraphale smiles, wiggling in his seat with his chin held high. Crowley feels like his chest is going to explode. Every day, it seems to him that he loves the angel even more. And he knows it’s not good. But it feels like it is. Aziraphale tells him it is, tells him he feels the same. And he wants so much to believe it, but it’s terrifying. One day something will change. One day they will not be able to get away with this. One day Aziraphale will be hurt, and Crowley can’t make him believe that, understand it enough to protect himself.

Aziraphale’s hand stays pressed discreetly into his thigh for most of the introduction and the first act, and at the intermission, they move out into the lobby and Aziraphale tries for a moment with Oscar while Crowley skulks off outside, trying to get some space and maybe make a little mischief.

But there’s enough going on out there without Crowley’s influence. For one thing there’s the damned blizzard, which Crowley had forgotten about when he’d stepped out. For another, there’s an actual disturbance happening. Crowley leans against the wall by the door and watches as the Marquess of Queensberry, waving a bouquet of rotten vegetables, is dressed down by two men Aziraphale had pointed out earlier. George something and the theater director? There was a little retinue of police officers standing there, too, Crowley does not like police. They make him metaphorically itchy.

“You’ve had your refund, now, go,” says George Whatever. He turns and goes back inside the theater.

Queensberry does not go. He turns, sure, and prowls away, feet sliding in the snow. But Crowley can tell he’s not really leaving. Apparently the police can too, as they do not abandon their post, even with the snow accumulating on their shoulders and hats. Crowley sighs. If he wants any peace at all, even just for a minute, he’ll have to make it. He starts off after him, wishing he’d thought to take his overcoat.

“Oi! Q!”

Queensberry turns to look at him in shock. He recognizes the nickname; Crowley’s heard it before, but they have never met. Queensberry’s eyes narrow, whether from a desire to intimidate or because he cannot see through the rapidly falling snow, Crowley’s not sure. But it’s obvious the man is caught off guard by Crowley’s still face, the sunglasses hiding any expression.

“Excuse me, sir. Have we met?”

“You’d know if we had,” Crowley says. “I’m not someone people forget. Unless I want them to. You’d best get on, I think,” Crowley says.

Queensberry frowns. He’s a big man, not used to feeling threatened, Crowley can tell. His eyes sweep over Crowley disapprovingly. He gives a little shiver, then seems to bristle at his own weakness.

“One of his, then,” Queensberry says. “He send you?”

“Are you talking about _Oscar Wilde_?” Crowley says. “That’s a new one.”

“ _Sir,_ do you know who I am?” Queensberry draws himself up, making himself larger, more menacing.

Crowley sighs, exasperated, then smiles as he makes it happen, a second before Queensberry reacts, and the big man’s face constricts at the smile before he even realizes.

The bouquet of turnips in his hand is now a bouquet of snakes. Q gives a shout, letting go of it, shaking it away as one of the snakes holds onto his gloved hand with too many razor sharp teeth. Then he runs, feet sliding. The snakes on the ground vanish. They would not have lasted long in the snow. Crowley smiles slightly and returns to the theater.

“He won’t be back,” he says to the police.

* * *

“Did you _really_?” Aziraphale says, when the intermission has ended, and they are finding their seats again. “ _Crowley_.” But he whispers that last in Crowley’s ear, far closer than he needs to be, and then he winds his hand over Crowley’s and clutches it on his hip.

“Let’s just go right home after,” he says. Then his face changes, a more serious expression in his eyes, something beseeching. “It’s...we can just do whatever you like.” Crowley nods, not meeting his eyes. And then he doesn’t concentrate on the second act, either. He _is_ looking forward to the rest of their evening, but it’s not all eager anticipation. It’s not that Crowley doesn’t want to make love with Aziraphale. Quite the opposite. And it’s not that he doesn’t trust him. It’s just…

That first week they’d made love—almost every day, the first snow of the winter on London that year and Aziraphale had kept the shop closed and they’d lain together drinking cocoa and tea and whisky and wine and talking and cuddling and kissing and fucking—had been amazing. It had been perfect. Except that Crowley wouldn’t... _couldn’t_ do _one_ thing. That had been all right, he’d felt, a limit. Just the one. But now, lately, it seems like it’s all Aziraphale wants: things Crowley won’t do.

Not that he’s brought up _that_ again. He hasn’t. (But it’s going to happen, Crowley knows it is. Because he can’t keep saying no to everything. He hates saying no to Aziraphale, hates denying him anything, especially something he, Crowley has wanted himself, for a hundred years.) And just before the last time they’d made love, nearly a month ago, now, something _else_ happened, something much worse. Aziraphale had asked him if they could share their essences. Merge them together. Crowley had stared at him in horror.

“Aziraphale, no,” Crowley had said, finally. “We can’t do that. It’s not _safe_. Haven’t you heard about people going up in flames?”

“That’s only _seraphs_ and such in their true forms with _humans_ ,” Aziraphale said. “It doesn’t apply to us. Or essences. We could. If you like. Or even just look at each other that way. Without merging. So we—oh, _dear_.”

Crowley’s mouth had been open and working and saying nothing. He’d gone still and had to breathe deep to calm down. His essence? On display for Aziraphale, with all his holy perfection? All the broken things, the holes and gaps, the twisted things? Did Aziraphale even know what he was asking, saying that to a demon? If ever there was a way to drive the angel off, that was it. One look and he’d see, he’d see who he’d let into his heart. He’d see what an awful, wretched thing Crowley was, right down to his core. And then he wouldn’t even want Crowley’s corporation to touch his. And how can Crowley give that up? Or what if Aziraphale didn’t even want to talk to him, or see him, or...Aziraphale rubbed his back and apologized. He looked so sad, so sorry, but Crowley couldn’t explain; couldn’t bring the words to his tongue. Aziraphale might argue, anyway, and then he might win. Too risky. So Aziraphale had held him and Crowley had put his head in his lap and feigned nonchalance and they’d stayed like that for nearly an hour before Crowley calmed down and realized how close his mouth was to Aziraphale’s cock in this position and he’d pressed his face against him through his trousers, nuzzling his crotch with the bones of his face until he felt him harden and gasp. By then, Crowley was grinning, eager, and he unbuttoned him slowly and sucked him off and then they did other things and pretended Aziraphale hadn’t asked for anything else, that Crowley’s panic hadn’t happened.

Then, just that morning, Aziraphale had asked him about his wings. He’d forced himself to smile, to say that they were seen to, that Aziraphale didn’t have to groom him, that after all, he had managed for almost six thousand years, hadn’t he?, and he’d thought he’d done well, that he hadn’t shown any panic or fear, but then Aziraphale had given him that look, the one that could get him to do almost anything, and said, “Well, last I looked, we _both_ had wings, didn’t we?”

Crowley had gaped at him. He doesn’t know how to say no to Aziraphale when he’s like this, and Aziraphale knows it, must not even have realized that what he’d asked of Crowley was something he wouldn’t be able to give, because otherwise he wouldn’t have asked like this. But the thought of putting his hands on Aziraphale’s wings...he remembers them from Eden, from his first memory of Aziraphale. Their look of softness, their strength. He remembers, too, how careful he had been not to brush against them, as Aziraphale had sheltered him from the first rain. Oh, he’d wanted to. Wanted to reach out and sample the feel of those feathers against his fingers. Wondered if this strange, kind angel would finally recoil from him if he did. It hadn’t even been a real question. Aziraphale hadn’t recoiled from him or sent him away, sure, but to touch someone’s wings implied intimacy, trust. Angels were very selective about who they allowed to touch them that way. Demons simply did not allow _anyone_ to; the more vain among them, Crowley included, spent hours grooming themselves to stay sleek without assistance. And even back in Eden, with the broad directive of evil fresh in his mind, he hadn’t wanted to harm this angel who’d looked at him with friendly curiosity, who’d spoken to him warmly, who’d asked his name, who’d given his sword to help the humans because it didn’t seem to have occurred to him that he might need it to smite a demon.

And now Aziraphale wanted him to...no, he might as well pull him straight into Hell. He’d rather be smote on the spot than see him spread those wings only to have them tarnished, to let Crowley stain them with his touch. If the worry is a ridiculous one, well, they will not find out. He won’t test it. Aziraphale would not survive Hell. At least not as himself.

“Aziraphale…” he said. “Please.” And Aziraphale had relented. He’d kissed Crowley’s cheek and said it was all right, that he loved him, that he’d show it however Crowley needed, that he just wanted Crowley to feel it. And Crowley knew that he still wanted it, and other things, too, and Crowley was afraid, not because he thought Aziraphale would leave if he didn’t give him what he wanted, but because he knew that one day he _would_ give it to him. And because he knew that one day, no matter what choices they made, all of this would be over, and he wanted to make it last as long as it could, to keep Aziraphale happy as long as he could.

Now, sitting in the laughing audience, when he feels the panic rising, he tries to imagine Aziraphale’s body, just his earthly corporation, warm and soft, wrapped around him. That’s safe; that’s nice; that’s always nice. It’s all Aziraphale is hinting at. And if he shouldn’t allow that much, well, the time for that discussion with himself is in the past. He’d never seriously considered refusing Aziraphale’s touch, had never really believed, until the evidence was impossible to refute, that Aziraphale could want them to touch the way they do now. There will be no revisiting that decision, and he doesn’t want to. But where does he actually need to draw the line, now that they’ve crossed this chasm? Where is the place where he can meet Aziraphale’s needs, give him what he wants, without putting him in danger? Or is it even that, or is Crowley just too afraid of himself, of showing too much to Aziraphale, of needing too much from him? Crowley doesn’t know, can’t say, but they have to be careful, and he’s the one who has to remember that. He can’t just give the angel whatever he wants, even if it’s what he wants, too.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, Oscar invites Aziraphale for drinks at one of his clubs, the Albemarle.

(“How many clubs is he in anyway?” Crowley had groused. But he’d put on a scarlet waistcoat and a silk necktie and joined him.)

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs as they step inside. He can feel something troubling the atmosphere here. Beside him, Crowley frowns. Perhaps he feels it too? Aziraphale gives Oscar’s name to the porter. He shakes his head.

“Gone, I’m afraid,” the porter says. “He’d had a bit of a shock.”

“And you, too, I think,” Aziraphale says. “I’m ever so sorry, Sidney. Be at ease.”

The porter blinks, stills, and now he’s smiling at them. Crowley looks around at Aziraphale theatrically, and Aziraphale feels his face warming.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says to the porter. “Let’s...let’s go.”

They barely make it outside, the heavy door thudding shut behind them, before Crowley rounds on him.

“Angel—what is going on?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Crowley. But I think I had better find Oscar. Do you...would you mind terribly?” he reaches for Crowley’s hand, but Crowley steps back a little.

“Are you sending me away?” he asks. His voice is hard.

“No, of course not.” Aziraphale says, frowning. He’s not sure how to move forward, how to get them away from this odd, awkward place they’ve been ever since he brought up wing grooming a few weeks ago. Crowley quiet and distant, sullen and surface level, hardly touching Aziraphale at all unless Aziraphale initiates it. And usually, then, he’s sweet, affectionate, and tender as ever. He has never pulled away before. But that’s what’s coming, isn’t it? Crowley pulling away for good. Aziraphale has crowded him, has pushed him too far. Or perhaps Crowley is simply bored with him. “I do need to see him,” Aziraphale says, apologetically.

Crowley looks out at the road. He gives a short nod. Aziraphale admires the fit of his top hat. He could never wear such a thing, he knows, but it’s lovely on Crowley, the black satin against the silk of his flaming hair. His chest feels hollow at the thought of losing Crowley, of not having this beauty before him. He wants to touch him, but Crowley had pulled away. Aziraphale does not want to touch Crowley if his touch is unwanted. He does not want to do anything with Crowley if Crowley does not want it. But lately it feels like it’s all unwanted. That _he_ is unwanted. They’d made love after the premiere. Not since, but that was only a short time ago, and Crowley had seemed to like it, had seemed enthusiastic, and caring, and attentive, though Aziraphale had started it. Afterwards, they’d held each other and talked. Crowley had slept.

But perhaps that wasn’t about loving Aziraphale. Perhaps Crowley just enjoyed the act. Perhaps he liked Aziraphale on top of him, abandoning his primness, and losing control under his demonic charms. Perhaps it made him feel powerful. Or perhaps he, quite understandably, just liked having his cock stroked until his mind let go and he was gasping and half-serpent, curled around a warm body and sliding into sleep.

Aziraphale had not brought up again the question of Crowley penetrating him. Crowley had not wanted that. Crowley had not wanted to touch or even see his essence. And perhaps most painful, Crowley had not wanted Aziraphale to touch his wings, had seemed positively revolted by the thought of touching Aziraphale’s.

Crowley has not even initiated sex since that time Aziraphale had shocked him with his mention of essences, more than a month ago. Perhaps it had been a deflection, Aziraphale thinks now. And since then, he’s only been by the bookshop twice, and then in poor spirits. Sometimes there were flashes of love, still, but Aziraphale has learned that love can mean a lot of different things. Perhaps he loves the bookshop, or Aziraphale’s wine. Perhaps he still loves Aziraphale, but not in that way, or it’s just not enough. He might feel obligated to come, to spend time with Aziraphale, even if there’s something else he’d rather do.

What if it’s true? What if Crowley really does not want him, does not love him that way anymore? Can they even still be friends? Would Crowley want that? It’s cold, and the cold seems to move inside of Aziraphale. To wrap itself around the things inside of him, his organs, his thoughts, his heart. What on Earth would he do? Without Crowley? He can’t conceive of it, not really. He only knows it could never go back to the way it was before they were together. Twenty, fifty years without even seeing him? Never to have his touch? He’d go mad with the ache. It would feel as if he were missing a part of his very being.

“Crowley—”

“Go on, then,” Crowley says, bitterly.

Aziraphale nods, hiding his shaking in a shiver at the cold. They will have to talk. He’s not giving up without at least getting this all out in the open. Is it possible Crowley isn’t done with him, that he can fix this, whatever he’s done? Or even that there’s something else he doesn’t know about, doesn’t understand? Something that maybe doesn’t have to do with him? He couldn’t wish troubles on Crowley, but...is it just possible that this is something they can solve together?

“I’m sorry,” he says. He hadn’t meant to speak at all, but the words force their way from his lips, little more than a whisper. God, he sounds pathetic. Crowley’s face crumples, just for a moment, he’s a picture of abject despair.

“Angel—” Crowley says. Then his expression flattens, his jaw sliding into place. “I’ll see you later, all right? I’ll just go to the bookshop.”

Aziraphale wants to tell him not to trouble himself, but the words, the reluctant tenderness that flitted across Crowley’s face, fill him with warmth and hope. So he nods, but then he walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. I don’t know if the scene between the Marquess of Queensberry and the theater representative actually happened, but Q did show up that night after having had his ticked rescinded and refunded by the theater’s business manager, George Alexander. There were a lot of police present that night because Q had threatened to throw vegetables at Oscar and cause a scandal during the play’s opening night. But he didn’t get in. Also, there actually was a blizzard that night.
>   2. “Sir, do you know who I am?” (Queensberry was well-known, both a peer and someone who’d experienced a lot of public shame at this point, much of it related to insinuations about the homosexuality of both of his sons and himself. Queensberry also has the distinction of having created the Queensberry rules of boxing.)
>   3. Sidney Wright, the hall porter at the Albemarle, was there when Q showed up, demanding to see Wilde. Wilde wasn’t there, so Q left his infamous note, which read either: “For Oscar Wilde ponce and somdomite,” or “For Oscar Wilde posing somdomite,” depending on whose interpretation of his handwriting and intention you accept. Either way, he misspelled _sodomite_.
>   4. A ton of Oscar’s dialogue in this chapter is based on actual Oscar Wilde quotes (“Consistency is the last refuge…” / “Life imitates art…”/“There is no such thing as a moral…”). If you’d like to read more about this, the source I used is _The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde_ by Neil McKenna.
> 



	7. To Dance Upon the Air (Part IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the last part of “To Dance Upon the Air,” Aziraphale confronts both Oscar and Crowley, and the stage is set for a major shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cw at the end to prevent spoilers if you don't want them).
> 
> This chapter was beta'ed by [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams). All mistakes are my own.

Aziraphale finds Oscar in a room at the Avondale Hotel. Oscar does not ask how he got in, only shoves the note in front of him and frowns.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t know what to do,” Oscar says. “It’s not only this. My whole life seems ruined by this man. You do not know the half of it.”

“Then tell me, dear fellow. Perhaps I can help.”

Oscar stares at him. “I mar your life by trespassing on your kindness,” he says. “But I don’t see anything now but a criminal prosecution.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply.

“It’s not a _trespass_ ,” Aziraphale says. “Let me help.”

* * *

Some hours later, Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, discouraged. Queensberry has been single-minded, busy. Oscar wants to stop the man’s campaign against him, understandably, but the approach he seems to have chosen is doomed to failure, and they won’t listen to him, won’t accept his offer to approach Queensberry on their behalf. He thinks he will do it anyway, if they do not see sense. As it stands, Oscar has already engaged a solicitor.

Crowley is sprawled on the couch in the backroom, not upstairs in the flat, and Aziraphale tries not to be hurt by it, not to attach any import to it. After all, they do sometimes sit here and talk.

“How’s dear Oscar?” Crowley says, not stirring.

“I saw the note,” he says. “And there’s a whole...context.”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale tells him. Of course they both know of the general air of scandal, of Oscar’s liaisons. But this is personal. A moment in a carriage between Oscar and his lover, Queensberry’s son, that Queensberry had unfortunately observed. A few provoking letters back and forth. A threat on Oscar from Queensberry, who had arrived in his rooms.

“It hardly seems fair that it should have to come to this.”

“No,” Crowley says. His tone is unsurprised, dispassionate. “People _will_ interfere.”

“I’m afraid that Oscar will challenge this,” Aziraphale says.

“Yes,” Crowley says. “I think he will.”

“It will come to no good,” Aziraphale says. “Not with the laws being what they are right now.”

“The laws are shit,” Crowley snaps. “Nothing unusual there.”

Aziraphale sighs. He stands and goes up the stairs, fetching tea, hoping to calm himself down. When he returns, he sits in his desk chair, not beside Crowley on the couch. Crowley is silent. Aziraphale wonders if he’s asleep.

“You know, “ he begins, “I felt like a hypocrite telling him that I think he ought to abandon his cause. It’s not what I want to tell him, really. Not what I want for him. And such a silly thing to object to. They act like it’s a worse crime than murder. Sex! Just because it’s two men.”

Crowley is still quiet. Aziraphale sighs, feeling nervous, aware that this moment is perhaps not the best one. He goes on anyway. “But then, Crowley, sometimes I feel like a hypocrite with...well, with _us_ , too. Not because of all this nonsense, you understand. Just...with you.”

“What?” Crowley’s voice is sharp. Aziraphale’s instinct is to retreat. He winces, steels himself.

“Sometimes,” he says, quickly. Because he can’t stop, can’t _not_ say these things. He takes a deep breath, goes on, “Like there are two separate standards for us. Like there are things I want with you that you think I ought not. For a while it’s seemed like you think holding yourself back is protecting me somehow. But I’m not sure that’s it because now it seems like you...you don’t want to...to talk to me, to be with me like you did. Crowley, as we’ve grown closer, have you found that am I not as you thought I would be?”

Aziraphale sips his tea rather primly, hoping to seem at ease, as if any answer might be met with equanimity, but Crowley is watching him carefully, holding his body too still, and Aziraphale can’t do it. He shifts uncomfortably, aware of a quiver passing through him, over his face.

“Crowley,” he says, finally. “Has something happened? Are you all right?”

“Wha—nothing. I’m _fine_.”

“Well, then...do you need something from me that I’m not giving you? You can tell me. Whatever it is, my dear. I hope you know.”

“You’re perfect, angel,” Crowley says, slowly. But it’s dismissive, it’s almost harsh, and when he says it, he looks away.

“I’m _no such thing_ ,” Aziraphale says, suddenly heated. “Crowley, I’m not—you can’t treat me as if I’m made of glass. You can’t refuse to see my faults. I’m not perfect. I’m not even a very good angel.”

Now Crowley sits up. “ _Yes_ , you—” he begins, forcing the words out around gritted teeth. But Aziraphale cuts him off.

“ _Please_. We’re equals, aren’t we? So you shouldn’t make decisions about _me_. About what’s right for _me_. You shouldn’t just make decisions for the both of us without telling me. Without talking to me.”

Crowley doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move at all. He’s sitting up almost straight, rigid, and Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s seen Crowley hold himself this way before. Not ever. Aziraphale presses his eyes closed for just a moment, steels himself, and begins, because this is what he has to say. And this is it, the moment he has to say it.

“Crowley? My dear, if there are things you want or things you _don’t_ want, that’s _fine_ , but please don’t deny yourself things we both want because you think you don’t deserve them or that you have to protect me. Just _please_ tell me what you’re thinking. Talk to me. Don’t go silent like this. If you’re angry or I’ve made you uncomfortable, or if there’s something you’re afraid to ask for? Even if you don’t want anything with me any more.” Aziraphale pauses here, just slightly, hoping Crowley will object. But Crowley doesn’t say anything, and Aziraphale goes on before the pause goes too long, afraid it will become an answer.“Or...do you need some...some time? Or some space? That’s fine, you know? We could spend some time apart. Or...go back to being friends. Or if you don’t like the way we make love...I remember once we talked about, about other things. _Bondage_. Or...other things. If you like, we could try—it’s perfectly all right if you—”

“No. Aziraphale. God. Satan. Just stop.” Crowley looks panicked, close to tears, but there’s something about him that makes Aziraphale afraid to approach him, afraid to reach out to soothe. And perhaps it’s just as well, because he doesn’t know what to say. The silence stretches out. They’re comfortable with silence, usually, but this one is, well, it’s loaded. And it’s _long_. They might have sat there nearly half an hour before Aziraphale finally gives up.

“Very well,” Aziraphale says, carefully. “Well, if we’re not going to talk, and we’re not going to...do anything else, then shall we call it an evening?” The evening, Aziraphale thinks, will be the death of him. He will close the door behind Crowley, let the demon see that he is at peace, and then he will lock the door, close the bookshop, and...and...

Crowley stands, blinking. But he doesn’t walk to the door. He goes to Aziraphale, stands in front of his chair, looking down at him, his mouth hanging open a little. Aziraphale waits, eyes wide.

“Shall I...walk you out?” he says, finally, shoving down his resentment at the idea, and the sudden panic that has bubbled up in him at Crowley’s unexpected approach.

Crowley holds out his hand. Aziraphale takes it, lets himself be pulled up. Crowley moves toward him slowly, and when Aziraphale doesn’t move away, or tell him to stop, he closes the distance between them and is quite suddenly kissing him, his lips, his face, his neck, gently but with a sudden, growing desperation. Aziraphale sighs and leans against him, tears springing to his eyes.

“Ohh, my dear,” he says. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want me like this anymore.” _Do you? You won’t go, will you? This isn’t just some awful goodbye? Don’t go, Crowley. Please. I won’t ask you for anything._

Crowley makes a pained noise. “I want _everything_ with you,” he says. “Come home with me. Please. Let me—let me show you where I live. Aziraphale, angel. I’m sorry.” Crowley is kissing him between words, now he presses his face into Aziraphale’s neck and tongues him there, speaking into his skin. “I never wanted to make you feel like that. I love the way we make love. It’s perfect, everything is perfect, because it’s you.” He kisses Aziraphale’s hair. “God, Aziraphale, everytime I learn something about you it’s _so much better_ than anything I imagined. But I’m not...I’m...Let me...let me show you how I....what I...will you?” He pulls back, looks at him. “Angel, I’m sorry. I should have...I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale nods. “I’ll come home with you,” he says. “Of course I will.” Crowley is shaking in his arms, even as his words, his tongue, are hot against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale does not know what he is to be shown, exactly. But Crowley is offering, not hiding, not pulling away, and that is all he needs.

* * *

Crowley has never brought Aziraphale to his rooms, and he’s nervous. After all, they’ve been to Brown’s before, for dinner, for tea, for cocktails and dessert, and Crowley’s never even implied that he _lived_ there. He’d never wanted Aziraphale to know how he lived, how contingent and temporary everything has always felt for him. But he can’t keep stopping himself when it’s hurting Aziraphale to hold back, when Aziraphale thinks he’s holding back because he _wants_ to, because he wants to keep him at a distance. He’s told him no too many times, to too many things, and Aziraphale has noticed, because of course he has, is trying to puzzle it out and blaming himself, making up all kinds of terrible stories about himself to explain Crowley’s behavior, when he’s perfect (whatever he says), and it’s down to no one but Crowley himself, down to nothing but Crowley’s fear. And he’d promised himself before they started this, back when he was still worried about Oscar, that the moment that his own fear came between them, he had to stop listening to it—he can’t hurt Aziraphale again, not just because he’s afraid. _Why_ , Aziraphale had said, _would this be the thing they found out?_ And he’s right. Rationally, Crowley knows he is.

His rooms at Brown’s are the way they should be when they arrive. Crowley takes Aziraphale up and they find them scented with roses, softly lit, and empty. He hates himself right now, his body roiling with shame, but he loves Aziraphale. He loves Aziraphale, and it’s not enough just to feel it.

He lets the heady scent fill him, lets his body take over, as he lets Aziraphale divest him of his glasses, his overcoat, his tailcoat, waistcoat, necktie, shirt. He doesn’t miracle anything, doesn’t rush. He undresses Aziraphale slowly, carefully, completely, kissing down his body and teasing him with his tongue so he laughs and gasps, the sounds filling Crowley with delight, lulling him out of his funk.

“Is it all right?” Crowley says, smiling. “We can do what you want, all right? Just for tonight.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, “yes. Oh, Crowley. It will be fine. I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Don’t talk about it. Just for tonight, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, backing him up to the bed, he lets Aziraphale pull him down.

“Only if you _want_ to, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Only if you’re sure. Promise me. Don’t do it if you don’t want this too.”

“ _Yes,_ Aziraphale. You have no idea how much I want this,” Crowley hisses, pinning him down. Aziraphale’s eyes light up, he trails a hand down Crowley’s arm. “Wanted you like this for a hundred years. At least.”

“Oh my,” he says. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“You’ll—” Crowley turns his head to kiss the smooth, pale hand. “You’ll find out.”

“Enlighten me.” Aziraphale gives an eager upward thrust and Crowley groans, his body moving, responding with no conscious effort on his part. He was glad he was still in his trousers. He was going to have to be careful. The most careful he’d ever been with anything.

Crowley does what he has not let himself do since that first night, parting the angel’s legs and dipping his head between them, not to lick and suck at his eager cock, but to bury his face deeper and apply his tongue to the tight hole, to let it burrow there. Aziraphale squirms and yelps and moans and his hands are in Crowley’s hair and Crowley is lost. Aziraphale is wet and half open and ready for him, begging. And it’s not wrong, it couldn’t be wrong, not when they’ve done things _like_ this a thousand times. It’s just that Crowley has to be _careful_. So he covers his fingers with warm oil from the little pot by the bed, and strokes Aziraphale, tracing the tight, pink opening with his fingers, before he inserts one, two; slow, careful, Aziraphale panting, straining to keep still, Crowley so hard he thinks he’ll explode, but no, no, not that. _Slow, careful._

He undoes his trousers and steps out of them, then crawls up, over Aziraphale, kissing his body, running his oil-slicked hands over his warm skin, then he takes the angel’s hand and wraps it around his cock.

“Guide me,” he hisses. “I’ll jusst go sslow, all right?”

Aziraphale nods. “Slow,” he repeats, sounding dazed.

“Yeah.”

Crowley inches in so slowly that Aziraphale starts to buck up against him, Crowley, bracing himself on his hands, whispers, “Angel, no.” he pushes Aziraphale down, holds him there. “Be still, Aziraphale. Let _me_ , OK? Just at first.”

Aziraphale is vibrating; he’s not good at being still, and now it seems like it’s impossible for him, his body is twisted, almost looking broken beneath Crowley except that he’s so beautiful like this. He brings his arms up around Crowley and holds him sweetly, almost innocently.

“You’re so good to me,” he whispers.

Crowley feels tears jump to his eyes, the heat in his belly quickening. He slides in further, watching the angel, a little further, further. It’s tight, but there’s no resistance, no sudden clenching. Aziraphale’s body is relaxed, welcoming. He hisses again, sliding a little more. _Oh, fuck, if I mess this up—it’s not rational. It’s fine._

“Oh, G—, Crowley. Oh, please.”

“Pleassse _what_?” Crowley’s belly clenches and he winces, holding himself back.

“You _know_ what. Please, Crowley. I’m not going to break. Just...fuck me.” Aziraphale moves his hips again. Crowley gasps. There’s not much further to go. So he pushes all the way in, groaning.

“ _Ohh, good_ ,” Aziraphale says. “That’s perfect. You can move, my dear. It’s all right. So good, you’re so good.”

“Angel, wait.” The pressure is intense. Crowley just wants to feel it, feel Aziraphale, holding him everywhere, his body making space for _him_ inside of it. “Thisss iss...I’ve never felt anything like thiss.”

“We can stay here like this,” Aziraphale says, stroking down his back, cupping his buttocks, his hips, and pulling them in toward him. “I like having you inside me. Holding you like this. Do you feel good?” He smiles, closing his eyes, tipping his head back, arching his back.

“Aziraphale…”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale says. “I wonder…” he reaches over to the bedside, trailing his fingers in the oil and slides them down over Crowley’s lower back, gently pushing between his buttocks. “Can I?”

“Ngk, _”_ Crowley says, nodding. His fingers blindly nudge at Crowley, stroking, pressing in just slightly. Crowley tries to hold still, to let him, but Aziraphale doesn’t even get a whole finger inside him before Crowley’s body stiffens, and he gives an unwitting little thrust, his cock pulsing inside Aziraphale. Aziraphale shudders beneath him, his finger sliding out of Crowley. He tries to grip Crowley’s hip instead, but the oil makes his skin simply slide along instead, and he gives in, stroking his hip firmly, with a ragged rhythm. “ _Yes,”_ the angel whispers. “Yes, Crowley. Like that. Oh, God. Please.”

Crowley wraps his hand around Aziraphale’s cock and strokes as he begins to thrust, bending and licking down Aziraphale’s body without pulling out, his tongue growing more and more snaky until Aziraphale is writhing, screaming, clinging to him. His body goes tight and then Crowley’s does too, and Crowley’s sliding in and out of Aziraphale, wet and hot and easy, the only sounds their frantic breath and their skin against each other. Finally, they both collapse, clinging to each other. Crowley miracles them clean without even thinking about it. His heart hammers in his chest. He had never lived, not really, when he wasn’t with Aziraphale. But he suddenly feels that he will die if anything takes this angel from him. He will never be able to convey this emotion, no matter what he does. The weight of it floods him, and he rolls away slightly, to hide his face, helpless against the tears.

* * *

Aziraphale really has no idea how long he’s been there in Crowley’s room—but he assumes it’s not long, it doesn’t feel long even though, at the same time, it feels like he’s been there forever.

After a few moments, Crowley stands, offers him a hand. Even though he’s fine, he lets Crowley helps him stand, looking nervous, his lips pressed together.

“All right?” Crowley says again.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says. His heart feels liquid. “So lovely. Perfect. _Darling_.” He touches Crowley’s lips, wanting them to relax into a smile, and it works, Crowley breathes, wraps an arm around him.

“Come on,” he says.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asks. But it doesn’t matter. He’s a bit dazed; he would go anywhere Crowley took him. Crowley guides him into a bathroom, where there’s a gently steaming tub. The water is scented with oil; it explains the heady scent permeating the rooms.

“For you,” Crowley says.

“So thoughtful,” Aziraphale says. They hadn’t done this since that first week, when he’d woken up and been led, a bit baffled, by Crowley to his own previously unused bathroom. (“Get in with me. You’ll like it,” Crowley had said. Aziraphale had eyed him warily, but it had all been for show. He knew the comforts of a warm bath; or he would have, if his most prominent memory of them hadn’t been somewhat tainted with confused and frightening stirrings of desire.) Now he doesn’t hesitate to ask, “Won’t you join me?”

Crowley hesitates. He guides Aziraphale into the tub, holding his hands as he lowers himself into the water.

“It’s for you,” he says. “I’m just here to take care of you, all right? I can leave if you’d like to just relax. Get clean.”

“Please?” Aziraphale says. “Only if you want. I don’t mean to pressure you, but you would be welcome.”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale studies him, the lines of his body delicate and fragile even as the sinew of it makes his strength apparent. The light spray of bright hair across his chest, near his long, spent cock. He had miracled away the mess when they’d stood up, but Aziraphale almost wished he hadn’t. He’d liked the way it felt to have those vestiges of Crowley inside of him, the remnants of Crowley, where he’d been touched inside his body by that gorgeous one. Everything Crowley is so eager to miracle or wash away. “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

Crowley twitches, like he’s coming awake, then he steps toward the bath, sliding in behind Aziraphale. “ _You_ are,” he says. His legs crook, the bony knees coming up on either side of Aziraphale. He sighs. “There’s...soap,” he says, his voice uncertain. “If you want. It smells nice. Like what we used before.”

“Crowley...I...my dear, it wasn’t something _dirty_.” Aziraphale says, uncertain. He leans against Crowley. He will never tire of the feel of the demon’s warm flesh against his own. He will never not want it.

“No,” Crowley says, but he sounds like he’s only just realized it. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, hugging him, kissing his hair. “It wasn’t. ’S beautiful. So beautiful. So, special, angel. But it always is.” Aziraphale’s eyes prickle. Crowley’s hands on him are reverent, but firm, sure. His voice too, certain but shocked, as if he’s realizing everything he’s saying as he speaks. They’ll talk; it’ll be all right. Crowley loves him, he does.

“I’m not soiled,” Aziraphale adds. “You haven’t tarnished me somehow.”

“Don’t. You’re _not_. Never. ’S not _possible_. Nothing could could tarnish that halo. Not even me, apparently.”

“Least of all you. I _love_ you, you fiend.”

“ _Angel._ ”

“I know, Crowley. It’s all right.”

“No...I can say it. I want to say it: I love you, Aziraphale. I love you. I love you. I love you. See?”

* * *

It’s very early in the morning when they finally retire to Crowley’s bed. Aziraphale does not sleep, just holds Crowley, who sleeps burrowed into the bed, pushed against Aziraphale. He looks peaceful and almost sweet in his sleep, and Aziraphale likes watching him, likes taking the opportunity to study the delicate face, relaxed, the well-kept hair, disheveled. And now that he often lies beside him, Crowley sometimes caresses him in his sleep, sometimes partially waking, whispering his name as he slides a hand over his chest or arm, or wraps his whole body around Aziraphale, making him feel wanted and loved.

They stay at Crowley’s all day; Aziraphale has his luncheon brought up so Crowley doesn’t have to get up and he doesn’t have to leave him. To his surprise, there is a bookshelf at the back of Crowley’s rooms; mostly Shakespeare, but a few more modern things: Dickens, Hugo, Austen. It’s the Dickens that surprises him. He selects a volume and reads until Crowley is awake. For dinner, they both dress and go down, drinking champagne, and ordering dessert and cocktails to finish, then return upstairs with another bottle of wine.

They talk—they do almost nothing else—but they don’t talk about it, about why they’re there, about the not-quite fight. Aziraphale looks at Crowley sometimes and finds him pensive. He will wait, then, until Crowley is ready to resume the discussion. But at least it will be a discussion, and not a departure.

In the morning, Aziraphale extracts himself from Crowley’s clutches around the usual breakfast hour and makes his way downstairs. He has used a small miracle to arrange for Oscar to develop an urge to come to this hotel for breakfast, where they will run into each other. Aziraphale has a sense that whatever it is he needs to do to help this man will need to be done quickly. He isn’t sure exactly what it is, but they will talk, and he will piece it together.

He dresses himself quietly and closes the door behind him without a sound, though in his experience, it’s quite difficult to wake Crowley if he does not want to wake.

Oscar wanders in a few minutes after Aziraphale has prepared a plate. He looks a little baffled, very tired, with circles under his eyes. He joins Aziraphale immediately and calls for coffee with an almost obnoxious urgency. Aziraphale smiles softly at him, reminded of Crowley.

“All right, Fell,” Oscar says. “Tell me what I ought to do.”

“You won’t listen to me, will you?” Aziraphale says.

“I don’t think so, no,” Oscar says, with a wan smile.

“In that case,” Aziraphale says. “Be brave.”

“They’ve arrested him,” Oscar says. “The _Marquess_.”

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says.

He is sure that Heaven would want him to convince Oscar to stand up for himself, to fight. To attract attention and change things. But he cannot bring himself to watch the effect he knows this would have on his friend, on the people around him, who Aziraphale knows and cares for. “My dear...the idea, was for you _not_ to listen to my advice.”

“Well, I didn’t on one thing.”

“Libel charges,” Aziraphale says. They had discussed this that night, and he’d begged them to take another tactic. “Oh, Oscar. As I’ve already _painstakingly_ explained, you simply can’t win that. After all, he hasn’t _lied_.”

A dark shape moves at the periphery of Aziraphale’s vision, and he looks around, recognizing the motion with the thrill, the happy stutter he feels whenever his eyes light on Crowley.

Crowley nods, waves. He does not approach. Aziraphale does not like something in his expression.

Aziraphale hesitates. “Excuse me a moment,” he says. Oscar nods.

Aziraphale joins him in the hall behind the dining room. It’s a service hall. Hotel patrons are not supposed to be here. Crowley is not wearing his sunglasses. Aziraphale sees them tucked into his pocket. He smooths his hands over Aziraphale’s shoulders. He holds his gaze. He breathes hard, then suddenly he backs Aziraphale into the wall and kisses him.

“Crowley—what?”

“No one will see,” Crowley whispers. “Please.” He kisses him again, sucks gently on his neck.

“I have to go to Cornwall,” he says. “Found out this morning. _Apparently_ they were having some trouble reaching me. Seemed to find some _divine interference_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale begins.

“I’m not. Just a few days...Aziraphale, listen.” Crowley kisses his jawline. “I won’t be the only demon. I want you to know. More of us in England right now. I’ll be back soon. Just a few days.”

Aziraphale reaches up and smooths his hair. “Of course,” he says. “I love you.” He smiles. He doesn’t want Crowley to see the worry, doesn’t want Crowley to see the fear. Crowley still hears from Hell, still gets assignments, usually small things that he accomplishes easily or works out how to twist or to ignore and lie about. Bigger things, well, sometimes he and Aziraphale work them out together. Make sure nothing truly awful happens, while following the directive to the letter. But the last time Crowley mentioned doing anything with another demon—the last time Aziraphale knows another demon was present on Earth, it had been Hastur in Pulloxhill. And Aziraphale doesn’t even want to imagine what horrors in Cornwall might require more than one demon. (Mines—cave-ins, collapses, people trapped, floods? And then there was the shipwreck looting of poor coastal places, and in Cornwall especially, the smuggling, the—did they still do the smuggling out of Cornwall that they had a hundred years ago? Aziraphale doesn’t know.) He lets Crowley kiss him again, long and deep, pressing his body against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale holds him close.

“So,” Crowley says. “I’m taking—” he opens his coat, shows Aziraphale the flask pressed against his body—“the holy water. Just in case.”

“Oh, my dear—”

“I’ll come to you as soon as I’m back,” Crowley says, making it sound like a threat, trailing his hands down Aziraphale’s sides. A waiter walks past them, doesn’t seem to see them. Aziraphale blushes. Crowley sees and smirks, snakes his hands around to grab Aziraphale’s posterior and pull it toward him, undulating his body as he leans forward to kiss him again. Aziraphale gasps.

“Crowley! You can’t do that here! Someone—” Aziraphale’s objection dies on his lips. No one will see. No one can.

“Think about me,” Crowley says. “I want you to _want_ me. I want you to be ready for me. Waiting.” Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. Crowley smirks at him, but his eyes are serious.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says again. “Be careful. Please.”

Crowley goes still. “I love you, angel,” he says, the words rough, forced. “Don’t ever doubt it.” He replaces his sunglasses and he’s gone, the miracle keeping them hidden lifting with his departure. When a waiter walks by this time, he gives Aziraphale an odd look, covering it with a polite smile, and Aziraphale feels himself blushing again, as he makes his way back to the table and Oscar.

* * *

It’s a fruitless conversation. Oscar does not listen. After an hour or so, he says he has to meet with the solicitor.

“Let me walk with you?”

Oscar stares at him for a moment, as if weighing it in his mind. Aziraphale hesitates, wondering if he ought to withdraw the offer, if perhaps Oscar might not want to be seen with someone like him under the circumstances. But then Oscar nods.

They walk in silence. Outside the offices, the streets are busy. Aziraphale grasps his hand, gives it a quick press, then nods at him. He wishes very much that Oscar would change his mind, but he won’t force it. He can’t force it. Oscar disappears inside the office, gold door handle trembling as the door falls closed behind him with an ominous thud, and Aziraphale gives a great sigh and begins the walk back to Soho, feeling very alone.

He feels like a traitor, like he’s betraying someone no matter what he says, does. He has long since stopped believing that Heaven is really _watching_ , but every time he does something that feels like work, he wonders if he ought to send a report, ought to do something to show, at least, that he’s doing his job. But then he wonders if that might invite attention, when so far, he’s skirted it. Wonders if that might invite a quick peek down at the wrong moment, when he’s lying in Crowley’s arms—his body stirs at just the thought of him, the press of his body. _Ready_ , Crowley had said. _Waiting._ So brazen when he was usually the more reserved of them when it came to their lovemaking, almost apologetic. Crowley showing him his rooms—Brown’s of all places. All Crowley had ever told him was Mayfair, even after all the evenings they’d all spent at Brown’s with Oscar. And a hotel, something so temporary, so transient. The rooms so beautiful, neat, well-kept, almost as if unlived in. Something sad about it, something he’d filed away to ask Crowley about later. So unlike the homey bookstore, where Crowley—he realized suddenly—was always so careful to clean up after himself, to leave no traces, even when he seemed so relaxed, so at ease. The flat above the shop was for both of them. Surely Crowley knew that? Yes, he would have to ask Crowley about it. He would have to try harder to show him. But then there was Crowley kissing him with rare abandon, Crowley pressing him down into the bed, saying such things, undressing him with such reverence, keeping his lithe body covered until Aziraphale was ready for him, his serpent’s tongue devouring him, snaking inside of him, his narrow hips between Aziraphale’s thighs, his beautiful cock finally, finally breaching him, the way it had felt to have him there, nestled inside of Aziraphale, finally, finally. Aziraphale had not thought it was possible to love him more, but in that moment, he had loved him more than he had ever before. He’d felt christened when Crowley had come inside of him, blessed by the flow of it. The manifestation of his love within his corporation, something of Crowley, tucked inside of Aziraphale.

 _Clean you up_ , Crowley had said, pressed against him in the rose-scented water. And of course, he’d miracled it away. But Aziraphale had felt cleansed already.

Because Crowley hadn’t treated him like he thought his love would break him. He’d been gentle, careful, but he’d enjoyed himself, too. It was real, and it was just for Aziraphale. And Aziraphale did so like to see that. It had been so joyful.

But now he is off in Cornwall. And Aziraphale does not trick himself into thinking that his stay in Crowley’s rooms has solved everything, but it’s a start, isn’t it? And for Crowley to have told him about Cornwall, when he might once have hidden it, thinking to protect him, for Crowley to have said it, two days in a row now: _I love you._ Perhaps it really would be all right.

Aziraphale is just around the corner from the shop when he sees it, the smoke, and recognizes the smell, definitely the smell of books burning. He runs.

Having seen the smoke, having known that it is the books themselves, does not change the feeling of seeing the shop’s windows broken in, smoke streaming from them the smattering of books from the display lying in the dirt and damp of the street, the door standing open. The fire in the back, the _back_ , raging.

The bibles, the books of prophecy. Crowley’s painstaking drawings on the books Aziraphale had lettered with such care, the treasured cursed books, things they had made together when they’d first acknowledged themselves as friends.

Aziraphale cannot think. Perhaps this is why, even though they are shouting terrible words, throwing things, even though one of them calls for the other to look out, even though he has felt himself begin to blaze with divine wrath, the man in front of him, clutching a cursed bible, and cowering, he does not see the other of the two young men until it is too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: implied violence; explicit sexual content; references to sexual shame and homophobia.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Oscar’s quotes when Aziraphale meets him in the hotel are based on a letter he wrote to Robbie Ross:
> 
> “Dearest Bobbie...Since I saw you something has happened. Bosie’s father [Queensberry] has left a card at my club with hideous words on it. I don’t see anything now but a criminal prosecution. My whole life seems ruined by this man...If you could come here at 11.30 please do so tonight. I mar your life by trespassing on your love and kindness.” (Source: _The Secret Life of Oscar Wilde_ by Neil McKenna)


	8. Outcasts Always Mourn (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's errand with the demons is cut short as a major development unfolds.
> 
> cw in the end notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yet all is well; he has but passed  
> To Life’s appointed bourne:  
> And alien tears will fill for him  
> Pity’s long-broken urn,  
> For his mourners will be outcast men,  
> And outcasts always mourn.”
> 
> —From “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” by Oscar Wilde
> 
> Thank you to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for the beta!

Crowley goes to Cornwall via train. It had only been an hour since he’d left Aziraphale, and the ghost of his warm mouth is still on Crowley, the softness of his body beneath Crowley’s whipcord tautness, his angles softened where they pressed together.

The first time they’d lain against each other, bodies moving together, Crowley had worried his spare, unyielding body would hurt the soft angel, but Aziraphale had only pulled him closer, as if he’d needed that firmness against him, as if he ached to pillow him, to cradle him, to add his flesh to the frame that is Crowley. When Crowley had swept his eyes over Aziraphale’s naked body the next day, still incredulous at just the sight he’d been granted, he’d been unblemished, unhurt, whole. Crowley had hidden his relief in the very real reverence he’d felt.

Each time they did something new, it was the same: Crowley afraid, sure something in him would hurt the angel, even as Aziraphale wants, needs, and the night in his room...well, it was still bodily, a kind of compromise, really, he supposes. Bodies are safe to share, bodies, for all their significance when inhabiting them, are not _essential_ , are not what they are. Their bodies, they have already learned, can come together. But what they _are_ is different. Aziraphale is reckless in his separation from Heaven. But Crowley cannot allow any more risks to the angel than what they have already taken. _Bodies only_ , he thinks. He will, he decides, discuss it with the angel, instead of trying to hide it, to put it away. That had hurt Aziraphale, had made him feel unwanted (which was unacceptable, unthinkable). No, he will have to discuss it with him, because Aziraphale can tell when he is hiding something. But he will be firm on this point. Aziraphale is divine. Heavenly. Crowley will not pull him down.

Now, on the train, something flickers. Not a movement, exactly, not something visible. Just a kind of pull. Something infernal, impatient.

 _Now, Crowley,_ says a voice.

Crowley rises wearily, follows it. Dagon’s voice leads him to the front car, and they’re there. A young-looking, dark-skinned demon he does not know, dressed all in black, a new suit, less dandyish than his own since they’d joined Oscar’s circle, but otherwise fashionable enough. And Ligur, overcoat tatty and worn, boots on his feet, looking like a workman. And _Hastur_ , smelling as bad as ever, looking as terrible as ever, and the sight of him floods Crowley with disgust and, embarrassingly, with fear. He’d stabbed him at their last meeting; had left him in a burning house in a town full of villagers ready to kill him. Hastur had left him to die. The holy water in his pocket seems to burn against his chest and for a moment he wonders if it could be leaking, if it could destroy him here on the spot.

Hastur is speeding up the train. Hastur is doing this without regard for the conductor, without regard for the passengers, and the fear is rising now; demons can sense it, and it’s sweeping into Crowley and amplifying his own.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Crowley hisses, pushing against the fear.

Hastur laughs. A chill. Crowley hates himself.

“Scared, Crawly? You’re just like them, aren’t you?” he waves a hand around vaguely. _Humans_ , he means.

“Been up here too long, you have,” says Ligur.

The demon that Crowley does not know smiles; even so, Crowley can feel his eyes on his suit, can tell the demon admires it. For all his appearance of exaggerated youth, this demon is handsome enough, but his eyes are ringed with something dark, almost like kohl, except it's, but a part of him, not something he could scrub away. Crowley wonders if this is what it’s like for humans, for Aziraphale, to look at him, seeing always the thing that seems off, the thing that makes him look monstrous, despite his best efforts. Of course it is, he thinks. He knows it is. It’s only that when he sees them, other demons, it reminds him all over again, that he does not look like the people he sees, a fact he knows—but it reminds him of what it means.

He turns away, watches out the window as the landscape speeds by, the train, not built for this, rocking back and forth on the rails. If the train rolls and crashes, he knows, Hastur will not care. They will be expected to walk away, leaving bodies in their wake. If Hastur is merciful, there may be fire.

Face hidden, Crowley closes his eyes for a moment.

_Aziraphale’s mouth on his, Aziraphale’s hand in his._

_I love you,_ Aziraphale had said. He had not said, _I want you._ Crowley had wanted Aziraphale to say it, had wanted to hear him beg for him, had wanted to hear him say he’d wait for him, that whenever he returned, he’d be ready. He wanted to hear Aziraphale tell him what he’d do to get himself ready, how he’d prepare his body, where he’d put his hands. (He had said it was one time, but it would be more. Aziraphale had enjoyed it too much for Crowley to only let it happen once.) But Aziraphale had not said those things. _I love you_ , Aziraphale had said, instead, and Crowley knew that everything he’d wanted to hear was tucked inside it, was given to him along with something more, something so large, he is afraid, even after these beautiful years, to bear it. _I love you_ , he thinks now, wondering if he can ever say it without preamble, if he can ever say it without worrying that someone will look in at that moment and hear, without worrying that the love will weaken him against his duties as an agent of Hell.

The train stops. Crowley opens his eyes.

“We’re here,” Ligur says, his low, rumbling voice gleeful. Crowley wonders what they’re there for. He hopes it’s just encouraging a bit of looting.

The people in the cars behind them press out, shocked, looking around. The station masters stare in surprise at the platform, the tracks smoke slightly. Ligur grabs Hastur’s arm and they jump out, laughing and shrieking as they run through the station. Infernal flames spring from the track, but Crowley quietly tamps them, hoping Hastur will not notice. The other demon hangs back, eyeing Crowley, who moves somberly, slowly.

“Have you?” the little demon says.

“What?” Crowley asks.

“Been up here too long?”

Crowley takes off his glasses, holds the demon in his sights until he gulps and looks away.

They’ve barely stepped out of the station, barely had time for the sea air to hit them in the face when Crowley feels it, the little tug. Aziraphale. _Something is wrong._ He twitches, the instinctive desire to miracle himself to wherever the angel is rebelling against the knowledge that he _can’t_ , not like this, not just this second.

“What, ah, is it that we’re here for? Exactly?” he says, trying to hurry things along.

“Mine collapsed,” Hastur says. “We’re going in. Mine owner’s in there. Few people that stand to inherit if he dies. Rival miners that could help out of the mine closes down. Couple of the men down there in love with the same girl. Lots to do,” Hastur says.

“Right,” Crowley says. “Well, uh, I’m going in, all right? I’m just going to. Go in.”

“We all are, you idiot,” Hastur snaps.

“Spread out,” says Ligur. “And when you have finished, we will meet back here to recount the deeds of the day.”

_Fuck._

“Is that really necessary?” Crowley says. “I’ve other business. I mean, it’s probably going to take us all different amounts of time to get to a good stopping place. And I have to send in a written report as it is since I’m not going back to Hell. Do you really need a verbal report—?”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Ligur says. “Anything to avoid having this conversation.”

“Or any conversation with you, for that matter,” Hastur says. “It’s like talking to a particularly stubborn human. _A good stopping place?_ ” He frowns, exchanging a glance with Ligur, who smirks.

They stand there another moment. “Right,” Crowley says, impatiently. “So…” _Come on,_ he thinks.

Ligur shakes his head, exasperated, disgusted, and blinks out. The other demon does the same. Hastur nods at Crowley and starts loping off toward the sands.

Crowley’s mind races. He does not venture into the mine at all. Instead, he snaps himself to an estate in the guise of bringing news of the disaster, and tempts the rival mine owner to organize a very public rescue of the trapped workers, to poach them for his own mine and feed his pride. It will at least save lives even as it foments unrest. He does not have time to think too heavily about consequences, how this will look on a report, for instance.

When it is done, he runs into the wood at the edge of the estate, snaps his fingers, and is in Soho, his heart racing. It’s only been about a half an hour since they arrived in Cornwall, and he hasn’t felt anything change since he sensed danger. He starts for the bookshop.

He, too, smells the smoke before he sees its source. He, too, runs.

He, too, is too late. He feels it before he even arrives, the thing keeping him alive, the life that makes his own sufferable: it is almost instant—he’s there, in danger, but there, and then he is not. Crowley runs, but he’s not fast enough. Even if he had blinked himself into the shop it wouldn’t have worked, he will realize later. Because at that point, at the point when he begins to run, he is already too late. He will realize it because of the two young men who round the corner as he does, single-minded in his approach. He feels only their fear at that moment.

The door to the bookshop stands open. Inside, Aziraphale—no—Aziraphale is gone. Crowley’s heart clenches. It’s only Aziraphale’s body before him in the back room, and it’s still, bruised, and bloody, in the back room, his hands curled around the bible, the one with the serpents. The room is smoldering, flames licking into the shelves at the back, and smoke pouring into the shop. Crowley can see through the smoke, but he does not want to. Still, he moves closer and takes the bible from the corporation’s soft hands, feeling the ghost of their warmth, a different heat entirely from that of the fire. Something familiar, something that had once comforted him. He bites his lips, not daring to touch the marred body. He feels the press of the air against him, wonders if he could let it discorporate him, too, if he could stand here and change himself to something that cannot withstand air, if he might let the pressure of it crush him, push him until he flies apart.

Instead, he stands. Outside, a small crowd is forming, firemen running toward the shop, dragging buckets.

He can see something else starting to descend: a glow; something celestial, something powerful. A chill covers him, and he knows that even though the humans will not see him, there will be no hiding himself, no concealing his nature from this being if he stays here: Just as the reverse is true, an Archangel will always recognize a demon. Crowley snaps his fingers, but nothing happens. He needs to concentrate. He looks down at the body on the floor. It’s not _Aziraphale_ , he tells himself. Bodies, after all, are not essential. Not what they are. Aziraphale will be back. He closes his eyes. Aziraphale will get a new body and come back. He will. Of course he will. But right now, Crowley can’t be here. He can’t be here.

Crowley might have wondered if demons had done this somehow, if this was why they’d set up the Cornwall thing this way—they’d found out about him and Aziraphale, wanted to teach him some kind of lesson about what he is, and who owns his allegiance. But this time when he opens his eyes, despite what he’d intended, he’s not in his rooms at Brown’s. He’s standing in a pub, looking at two young men who had been rounding the corner as he’d approached the shop, two young men who smell of smoke and burned books. He had not known he was coming here, that he would find them. They do not see him because he does not wish to be seen. He watches them for a long time, watches their hands shake as they brag about what they have done to the fussy, ridiculous _poof_ of a bookshop owner, who had dared to sell bibles mixed in with books by Edward Carpenter and the _sodomite_ Oscar Wilde (“Hasn’t everyone heard by now? He had to know, and still had the books out there plain as day.”). Crowley’s face twists, his lip curling. He is not good at tampering with people’s minds; he does not do it with the finesse Aziraphale can. But when he is done, they stand up and walk to the police station, without knowing why. Without intending to, they confess that they are responsible for the attack and fire in Soho. _Yes, the one with the missing body—there had been a body,_ they confirm, even though there are conflicting reports about that, because some people had seen one, but it had not been retrieved by any authorities or funerary officials. They do not explain that they saw the Oscar Wilde books in the window, do not explain that they have their suspicions about the shop’s owner—not just because anyone who would carry Wilde’s books is by nature suspicious, but because they had seen him before, had spoken to him during his opening hours, seen him around, and, well, sometimes you can just tell. Jeremy does not explain that the shop owner had frightened him just before his friend attacked, because it would be too hard to explain why or how exactly. They tell the police what they have done, in the way most likely to gain them no sympathy at all. Crowley does not control their feelings, does not influence anything that comes after their confessions. If they do not repent it is because they are not sorry. And, in that case, well, if that is the case, when the police are done with them, at the end of their lives, Hell still will not be.

* * *

Aziraphale awakens in a bright white room. He recognizes instantly the sensation of being unincorporated and knows he must be in Heaven. He presses his eyes closed and attempts to tamp down the panic. “Fuck,” he whispers. He cannot think of Crowley. It won’t do. Best to focus on getting back to Earth.

He sits up.

“Hello?” he says, looking around. “Is anyone there?“

Gabriel pushes through what had seemed like a wall, smiling.

“Aziraphale,” he says, “Oh, good.”

Aziraphale blinks at him. It has been a long time, he thinks, but it would appear that a great deal has changed. For one thing, Gabriel is dressed in a pale but sober suit, complete with cravat and waistcoat.

“How have you been?” Gabriel says, full of bonhomie that, as usual, strains credibility. Perhaps, Aziraphale thinks, not so much has changed after all. And yet Gabriel couldn’t be bothered to check in once or so in nearly six thousand years. Though he supposes he really ought not complain. Not now.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “I’ve been discorporated, so obviously things are less than ideal.”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Ah, where am I?” Aziraphale ventures.

“Oh. The holding room. Just need to make sure everything’s decontaminated and in working order.”

“Decontaminated?”

“Just an expression.”

Gabriel waves a hand, indicating that Aziraphale should follow him.

Aziraphale does, stepping through the wall and emerging into a solid looking hallway with blank walls and white carpeting.

“I don’t suppose—” Aziraphale begins, his eyes catching on a group of passing angels in white suits. They frown at him.

“What’s that?” Gabriel says, loudly. If Aziraphale had blood, he would blush. As it is, he feels only a warm prickle.

“My body,” Aziraphae begins.

“Probably already being retrieved,” Gabriel says. “Let’s…discuss this in my office.” He waves his hand again, another exaggerated gesture, and one wholly unnecessary at that, as is Aziraphale is already following him. Aziraphale nods, clasping his hands at his middle.

“You’ve an office now,” he says, conversationally. He is feeling impatient, hoping it doesn’t show.

“Indeed!” Gabriel chortles. Aziraphale winces.

They round the corner and emerge into an enormous room, larger even than a ballroom. Toward its edges Aziraphale sees two Archangels he recognizes, and someone else.

“Michael! Uriel! Sandalphon! Sandalphon, have you met Aziraphale?” Sandalphon squints at Aziraphale, looking up from the sheaf of papers he’s holding. As the three approach, Aziraphale gets a better look at him and remembers. He remembers this new Archangel turning a whole city of people to pillars of salt. The ones he didn’t smite directly to Hell, anyway. His breath catches.

“Yes,” he says. “Sodom...all the...smiting.” He smiles, hoping it doesn’t look forced. Sandalphon is looking him over; they all are. Uriel looks detached and Michael looks… Well, she looks like she’s trying to be warm. Like perhaps she’d learned from a book, without any practical study at all, how to make people feel comfortable.

“Discorporated?” says Uriel.

Sandalphon licks his lips.

“Tell us—tell us more about that, Aziraphale,” says Gabriel, moving from Aziraphale’s side to stand across from him with the others.

“What? Did a demon get you?” Sandalphon says, sniggering.

Aziraphale twitches. It’s not wise to react. He tamps it down, but they’ve seen.

“It—” he cuts himself off. Stops. Hesitates.

“Go on,” Michael says. “We will be understanding. This is your first discorporation in nearly six thousand years.”

“It was…humans,” Aziraphale says.

“Ah,” Gabriel says. Michael schools her face blank. Sandalphon’s eyes widen. He looks like he’s forcing away laughter.

“Humans?” Gabriel says.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, testily. “And speaking of humans…what exactly do I need to do to get back? I would like to return to my assignment as soon as possible.”

“Oh?” Sandalphon says, his small, eyes flickering pointedly down at the papers in his hands before looking back up at Aziraphale. “In the middle of something, were we?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale says, thinking of Oscar. He does not let his mind go to Crowley, to what he’d said before he left that morning for Cornwall. He is afraid they would see it in him, written on him. And anyway, there’s no reason to panic. Not if he can just get back. Sandalphon looks at Gabriel, the two of them holding each others’ gaze like there’s a message in it. Michael and Uriel see it too and understand the message, whatever it is. Aziraphale hesitates.

“Michael?” Gabriel says. “The body. Would you…?”

She nods and turns, walking away slowly. Aziraphale wishes they might have a bit of urgency about them.

“Well, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “The thing is, it’s interesting to us that you feel you have such pressing work to get on with, given that you haven’t been sending in any reports lately.”

“Oh, well. It had seemed to me,” he begins, trying to sort through his panic, his annoyance at this—waiting until he’s discorporated to even remark on their own silence, and there’s Michael, in the distance, still walking, only just beginning to fade from sight, edges going misty.

“Yes?” Uriel says.

His patience breaks.

“Well, you see, I had heard scarcely anything at all for more than five hundred years,” Aziraphale says. “I’m afraid I’d come to the arguably quite justifiable conclusion that my reports weren’t being read.”

“So, you’d not heard _anything_?” Uriel says, looking confused.

“ _No_.”

“And whose orders did you follow, then?” Gabriel looks around at Sandalphon and Uriel. They frown.

“There _were_ no orders,” Aziraphale says. “I merely did the best I could. Though I did ask for guidance.”

“Ah, well,” Gabriel says. “There _was_ a bit of a reorg.”

“I’m sorry, a _what_ exactly?”

“But I don’t suppose there has been anything pressing,” Gabriel goes on as if Aziraphale had not spoken.

“A reorg—do you mean a reorg _anization_?” Aziraphale says. “You might have let me know if I needed to send my reports to someone else.”

“No, just not sure. I think some things might have been lost in the shuffle,” Gabriel says. Sandalphon shrugs. Aziraphale bristles.

“No harm done, though.” Uriel says. “Nothing important, so same outcome either way.”

“ _Nothing important?_ ” Aziraphale says. They exchange glances. Of course, Aziraphale thinks, of course it wouldn’t matter to them what he’d been feeling—abandoned, alone, and directionless.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “Why don’t you settle in and get started on your paperwork, then? But in future, we will expect you to resume your regular reports.”

Aziraphale nods, and walks to the desk Gabriel waves into being in the center of the massive atrium he calls an office. It is too much, he supposes, to expect a bit of privacy. But the stack of paperwork isn’t as thick as it might be, a bit of patience and and a little efficiency, and perhaps he will be back, waiting for Crowley, just as the demon had wanted him.

* * *

After Crowley leaves the pub and the boys in the hands of humans, he returns to the broken, burned bookshop, no Archangels in sight. The damage is not so bad as it might have been, and aside from the display and the broken door, the shopfront is largely intact. He clears the display, and repairs the door so that he will remain undisturbed, then sets about restoring the back room. His feet crunch through ashes as he lifts and sorts through the books, clearing away the smell and the soot as he goes. There’s a dull ache in his chest he won’t acknowledge, because if he does, he’ll be useless, and there’s no reason for it anyway, because Aziraphale is coming back, so he’s got to get the shop right for him.

So he sorts through the books, realizing dimly that some of the books that had been burned were their cursed specimens from the fourteenth century, and well, the curses were real. So that was something. Well, really, all their curses had done was excommunicate the book’s destroyers from the church (that was what they’d meant by “anathema” back then). Not all of the books they’d made together were destroyed, not the one with the little drawing of the two of them as wise men. Not the one with the serpents. Crowley is cheered by it, and heartened, he moves faster, even smiling a little as he sorts and stacks and miracles and sweeps.

No humans bother him while he works. He keeps them away. He goes upstairs to the bedroom once the shop is sorted, straightens up the stacks (Aziraphale refuses to put certain books in the shop, so Crowley won’t change his whole system, knows better than that). He changes the sheets and makes the bed, doing it by hand, except for a little miracle at the corners (how do humans do that?). He removes a long red hair from the carpet. (That one sets his heart pounding. What if there’d been more of them on Aziraphale?) This is Aziraphale’s space, he will do things Aziraphale’s way, and leave no trace of himself.

He descends the stairs slowly, looking around, breathing. It’s morning now, and not particularly early. It will all be all right, he tells himself. When Aziraphale is back, they will go to the Ritz and have champagne. Perhaps they will go to Paris and have brioche. Or even return to Portland Place and drink absinthe and do that ridiculous dance and kiss and let everyone there know that they belong to each other and that no one else ( _Reginald_ ) should even attempt to kiss the angel unless they want…

Crowley thinks suddenly of Oscar. He has no idea what is going on with the man—they’d gotten to know each other somewhat, but he’d stepped back when this whole legal thing had gotten started; Aziraphale had seemed to think it best to handle it himself, and Crowley, honestly, wasn’t at all sure he had anything helpful to say. But if Aziraphale isn’t here, if he wants to keep things ready for him, keep things the way he’d left them, he probably ought to find out what’s happening, ought to do something.

Crowley pushes out into the cold of the late winter morning, thinking he will find Oscar, perhaps at Tite Street (is he still there?), and have a quick word. He sees a little man approaching, a little man he’s seen a thousand times before and never acknowledged.

“Excuse me,” the man says, looking around as he emerges from the shop, schooling the door locked behind him with a whispered but firm command, “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

Crowley frowns at him. “Do I look like I run a bookshop?” he says. The man’s eyes sweep over him. Crowley sighs and keeps moving.

* * *

The trial, though, is not the sort of thing that escapes notice. Downstairs even sends Crowley a message or two about it; they’re waiting for him when he returns to his rooms that evening, having found only that Oscar is not home and trying hard not to think about when Aziraphale might return. Beelzebub’s missive congratulates him on getting the Prime Minister of Britain mixed up in “such a sordid scandal,” and on setting off a stir that will be felt for decades. Crowley has no idea what they’re talking about and has to read a few newspapers, and then he has to drink himself to sleep, dulling his mind and senses so much that he can only think enough to clutch a pillow that might still have something of Aziraphale on it (though if it does, he cannot detect it).

When he wakes, he finds he’s a bit hazy on how much time, exactly, has gone by. Crowley does not like being in these rooms, he finds, without the knowledge that Aziraphale is just across town. Without him there, and with the memory of him _here_ , in Crowley’s rooms, beneath him in his bed, pressed against him in his bath, his head next to Crowley’s on his pillows, the rooms seem too small, seem almost suffocating. Aziraphale should be here, or Crowley should not be.

He miracles himself something to wear and strides out onto the street. It has been, according to the newspapers, only a couple of days, though it’s quite late already, nearly tea time. He’s tired, not even sure if he’s up to this, but he’s got to try. He glances around lazily to make sure no one is looking, then snaps his fingers.

It works.

Oscar is sitting in a chair, leaning back in it, against a building, smoking and staring out at the ocean. _Monte fucking Carlo_ , Crowley thinks. The man has got a nerve coming to Monte Carlo in the middle of his own legal mess. There are people around, people dotting the sand, sitting in the same patio with Oscar, but none of them are speaking to him; his table is empty. Good. Crowley won’t have to handle any of their fragile little minds. He hesitates, then approaches, slings himself into a chair across from the man.

Oscar’s eyes tighten, but he doesn’t change his posture.

“Crowley,” he says, cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

“Talking to you,” Crowley says. “Listen—”

“And Mr. Fell? Is he with you?” Oscar looks around.

Crowley winces. “Please just listen,” Crowley says. “I don’t have long.”

Oscar takes a long, lazy draw on the cigarette. “Given me up, has he? Afraid I might drag him down? Get him involved in this? And yet _you’re_ here.” Oscar does sit up a little straighter now, and he casts around again in earnest. The scarf at his neck has come undone slightly, and it flaps in the breeze. Crowley pretends not to see even as it registers: Oscar doesn’t know about the shop, even though it had been in the papers. “What’s got you in such a rush? Is he waiting for you?”

“No,” Crowley says. “He...he’s gone. Indisposed, I mean. Look, would you just listen to me for a second, please.”

But Oscar is leaning across the table now, his green eyes narrowed to slits. “Which is it, Crowley. Is he _indisposed_ in order to avoid me? Or has he cast you off too?”

Crowley wants to hit him. Or perhaps only to shove him away and tell him never to speak of Aziraphale again. What can he say? That Aziraphale is dead? But he’s _not_ , and what if Oscar were to mourn? And when he comes back, if Oscar should see him, what then? And to say he’s indisposed, well, that _sounds_ like a lie, sounds like something you’d say to get out of something, or something _Aziraphale_ would say to get out of it, but he wouldn’t want Oscar to think he’d cast him off for the sake of propriety. And then there’s that phrase, _cast off_. Crowley doesn’t like that phrase. He can’t tell Oscar it’s not true because he can’t even say it. Not when Aziraphale is...

“This isn’t about Aziraphale,” he hisses, grateful for his sunglasses.

“ _Who_?”

Crowley doesn’t hide his sneer. “Oscar, your trial is shit,” he says. “You need to drop it. You need to write them right now and tell them you don’t want to do this anymore. Queensberry is an arse, but he didn’t _technically_ lie about you, and you do _not_ want to deal with the inevitable outcome, just trust me. I’ve had it straight from He—straight from _people in the know_ that this isn’t going to go your way. You want to end up in prison? Do you want this to be...to be your...” Crowley waves a hand, rolling his eyes. “Your...what people know you for? Legacy! Your legacy or whatever.”

Oscar takes another long draw on his cigarette and blows the smoke out languidly, closing his eyes. He looks terribly weary, terribly dramatic. “I’ve resigned myself to my fate, Mr. Crowley. It is, perhaps, in prison that I shall test the power of love.” he says. “Thank you for your interest. Do tell your Mr. Fell...I hope we meet again in better times. But I shall see if I cannot make the bitter waters sweet.”

Crowley stares at him. There’s something dark and hot and twisted in his chest. He swallows a few times, mouth dry. Oscar stares back for a moment, then he suddenly seems more interested in the clouds of opium-laced smoke that pour from his mouth, looking into them, and, it seems, through Crowley.

“Az—Ezra can’t be here,” Crowley says, finally. “He would if he could. He...sent me.”

Silence.

“You think me uncharitable,” Oscar says, finally, “but you do keep your cards very close to the chest. Fitting in Monte Carlo, perhaps. But you see, _he_ never did. Not before all this.”

Crowley starts to say “What?” starts to argue with him, the instinct to defend Aziraphale shaping his mouth for the _W_ , his head shaking. But it’s not worth it. Crowley doesn’t think him _uncharitable_. He thinks he’s a man thoroughly, understandably, preoccupied. And this _isn’t about Aziraphale_. Well, it is, but it isn’t. Not in that way. So Crowley stands and heaves a massive sigh.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging. “I tried. I’m going then. Have a nice...doomsday.”

* * *

“Hey, good news!” Gabriel says, materializing at Aziraphale’s side out of nowhere. He doesn’t go on, doesn’t say what the news is, so Aziraphale is forced to stop his pen, look up into the empty, smiling face. He has only filled out one form completely, is only thirty pages into the second, and this one is longer.

“What’s that?” he says.

“Good news, Aziraphale!” Gabriel repeats. “Michael was able to retrieve your body. And it looks like we’re going to be able to repair it! No replacement needed!” Gabriel picks up the remaining forms and flips through them. “I think it’s probably obvious, but we’ll ask Michael which ones you don’t have to fill out now...but, you won’t need a new body, so it’s less paperwork! So you see? She helps those who help themselves.”

“Oh, yes, that is rather good news. Thank you.”

“Yeah! But, look, the demon... _Crowley?_ I know you said it was humans, but were you involved in something with him?”

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale misses his body, the way it would have flooded his suddenly too active senses, overpowered them with the awareness of the rush of blood in his ears, the sound of his heart beating. He concentrates on holding still, though he realizes he’s already wringing his hands.

“Is it possible he could have done this? Induced the humans to attack, I mean?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says, without thinking.

“ _Really?_ You’re that certain?”

“The demon Crowley was...I know for a fact that he was in Cornwall the day I discorporated.”

“I see.” Gabriel is frowning. “And how, exactly—”

“Gabriel, he and I, we do rather keep track of one another, you know? How else could I thwart his...wiles.” Aziraphale finds that the words come out lovingly, like a caress, even when he tries to speak neutrally. Gabriel blinks, not looking at him.

“I should hope so,” Gabriel says, finally. “But it doesn’t seem to me that—how can you be certain the humans weren’t under his influence? Because, you see, he _wasn’t_ in Cornwall, Aziraphale. Michael saw him. She said he was leaving the scene where she found you.”

Aziraphale freezes. Heart or no, body or no, the thought—not the one Gabriel is asking him to entertain, no, of course not, that’s still a certainty. But the thought of Crowley finding him discorporated, of Crowley coming back, sensing the danger and going against the orders of Hell only to find Aziraphale too late. And how he must have looked, his body bloodied and crumpled on the floor, and his books (oh, his _books!_ ), burned as Crowley would know he’d never have allowed. What would he think? What would he _do_? Had he seen the boys? The misguided boys, and would he—? Then it dawns on him— _Michael?_ Famed for her sword and penchant for vengeance? Oh, no, no. Had she smote Crowley?

“Aziraphale?”

“Did Michael...ask him?”

“The _Archangel Michael_ is not in the habit of speaking with _demons_ , Aziraphale. She says he did not linger, but departed almost before she spotted him. As far as I know, there was no engagement at all.”

“Perhaps he...wanted to check that I had discorporated.” Aziraphale says, trying to cover his relief.

“Aziraphale. If he did this—”

“He didn’t. It’s not—it’s not his style, Gabriel. I know how he operates. We’ve been down there a long time.”

Gabriel frowns.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me exactly what happened. Just for the record, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale hesitates. It’s not just a matter of what to filter, but of how to frame it so it doesn’t _seem_ filtered. And even then, it isn’t only that, but where to begin, where to end? Gabriel knows so little of his life on Earth. And won’t the forms give them all the information they need anyway?

He begins with Oscar. With the play, the threat, the beginnings of Oscar’s ill-advised libel suit.

“I see,” Gabriel says, nodding along. “Yes.”

“You know about the trial?”

“I—yes. It’s well underway,” Gabriel says. “I have become aware of it, yes, since you mentioned being involved with something. I checked to see what was happening in London.”

“Oh, dear.”

“And you encouraged the man to press forward with this?”

“I—well, I did think that some level of engagement would be what Heaven wanted, though I personally felt that Oscar really had no case, not on the grounds on which he attempted to make one. Which I did intimate to him.”

“Which is it, Aziraphale?”

“Oscar would not be persuaded to try a different tack, Gabriel. But I...was still trying. Now do you understand why I wanted to get back before it was too late?”

Gabriel sighs. “Well, it’s a mess now. A huge spectacle. _Hell_ is probably very pleased. All kinds of persecution coming about thanks to all this _visibility_. I hope you were at least clearer in your message to him than you were at telling me what it was.”

Aziraphale feels tears beginning to start. He has not wept this way, bodiless, angelic tears, since the Great Fall. Gabriel studies him.

“Aziraphale? You haven’t told me why you were attacked.”

Aziraphale waves a hand. He isn’t really _sure_ , but he’d heard the boys shouting about his books, had heard them mention Oscar, mention _him_ , in that tone.

“They didn’t like the books I was selling,” he says. “I sold his books, you know. At my shop. And some other books by...homosexual writers. They’d probably seen him in my shop. Seen us together. It’s all the same, you see? That’s why I began the...the story there.”

There’s a chime then, and Gabriel nods. “All right,” he says. “Well. We’ll...resume this later. Excuse me.”

Aziraphale finishes the form, hears the room behind him rustle with the movements of Archangels passing, congregating. At one point, Uriel waves a hand and cordons him off, and it’s silent then. He wonders how long it has been on Earth, how much time will have passed by the time he is allowed to return.

The stack of completed forms is thicker now, than the stack of forms that remain, and Aziraphale is tired. The forms, do not, after all, only involve writing, but a kind of extraction of memory that he finds trying, especially when holding so much back. It’s been a long time he’s been cocooned here, alone, and he stands, getting to his feet and looking around at nothing but the close, faintly glowing, white walls. He begins to feel a little claustrophobic until he pushes against one of them, and finds himself peering out into a hallway. So he’s not restrained then. But from this hallway, how would he get back? Could he simply push against the wall in the same spot? But then how would he find that spot in the featureless corridor?

A touch pulls him back into the space, and he’s once again standing fully by his desk.

“Nearly done, then,” Gabriel says, smiling at him. “Good man.” Sandalphon is there, smirking, and by their side a tall, slender Archangel with short, bright hair and glowing green eyes. Raphael. He nods at Aziraphale, a curious smile on his lips.

“Raphael has nearly gotten your body ready,” Gabriel says. “But there were some...questions, Aziraphale. Some things we need to ask you about before we can proceed. Sandalphon, just outside, if you will. Thanks.”

Sandalphon does not look happy, but he steps back, falls behind Uriel’s cordon.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel begins. “Raphael tells me that there are some...signs of use in areas of your body where we wouldn’t expect to see them. And...your body is still in decontamination because there are, well, some other anomalies. We’ll come to that. But listen. I need you to...explain.”

“What use?”

“There are things we can see,” Gabriel says. “It’s standard practice to examine a body before it’s issued.”

“But it’s already _been_ issued.”

“If we return you to it, it’s a reissue. The same principle applies,” Gabriel says. Raphael nods. Sanctimonious, Aziraphale thinks. He has no stomach, but he feels ill, feels the inside of him turning to something like smoke. Was this it, had Crowley been right, then? And without his knowledge, they’d been prodding at his body, _examining_ it and probing it and recreating everything it had done? But hadn’t they been careful?

“You _examined_ —”

“Yes,” Raphael says. His voice is smooth, warm. “You know already, then. What I’m about to say.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Raphael’s eyes widen slightly.

“Well,” he begins. “There was some body fluid. Usually associated with...sex acts. Trace amounts. Your own, at least, and minute, really, nothing alarming except that for an angel, I wouldn’t expect to see anything like that at all. I wouldn’t even really expect to see those _organs_ at all, though perhaps it’s not surprising in someone on Earth for so long. I imagine it’s practical to mimic the humans. Fit of the clothes and all, like Gabriel says.”

“Leave me out of it, and reserve your judgments,” Gabriel says to Raphael. “He reports to me. This is my call.”

They hadn’t found anything of Crowley, he hopes he’s heard correctly between their words. The demon had been so careful. He’s mortified, but so relieved he can’t help but move straight from fear to indignation.

“And this is a problem,” Aziraphale says, pulling himself upright. “Because of what _organs_ I chose to have.”

“You were just telling me about your role in a certain trial,” Gabriel says. “Surely you can understand that I’ve put two and two together.”

“Oh. No. Please don’t.”

“No?” Gabriel says.

“Of course not! I...might have experimented a bit. But not with _humans_. Just...on my own.”

Aziraphale finds himself staring at the floor as Raphael blinks and looks carefully away.

“Really, Aziraphale? Onanism?”

“Humans made that up, Gabriel. It’s not an actual sin, as you well know.”

“Still, Aziraphale. I’m...surprised at you. You’ve always seemed so...” Gabriel waves a hand; Aziraphale has no idea what it’s meant to imply.

“You don’t know what Earth is like. I was trying to...understand better.”

“Wow. OK. Well, whatever floats your boat. I guess. Isn’t that what they say?”

“It’s certainly possible,” Raphael says. “It’s consistent with what I found. There’s no indication that he’s lying.”

“Says _you_ ,” snaps Gabriel. “You’re not being asked for your _judgment_ , Raphael.” Aziraphale, unused to this kind of open disrespect between Archangels, looks up in time to see a chastened look skitter across Raphael’s long, inexpressive face.

“ _Lying?_ ” Aziraphale says. “How dare you? You examine my body without my knowledge or consent, and now you accuse me of lying and fraternization with humans based on absolutely nothing at all! Bodies are...strange, Gabriel!”

“Well, if you _are_ lying,” Gabriel says, “it doesn’t matter, Aziraphale. I trust you haven’t forgotten that.”

Raphael leans over, whispers something to Gabriel and Gabriel rolls his eyes, nods.

“Finish your paperwork,” he says. “Aziraphale? If you’re lying about sex with humans, we will find out. I think you might remember Raguel?”

Aziraphale gives an audible and rather theatrical sigh. Sex with humans indeed. If that’s all they’re concerned about, then perhaps he’ll be all right. Even if the thought of Raguel, enforcing Heaven’s laws all those years ago...initiating the Fall, deputizing the warrior angels, himself included. Aziraphale remembers what it was like to act on his judgment, to see it passed, mercilessly, coldly on their own brethren. He’d suspected the Archangel’s hand in other things over history, the Flood, the extermination of the Nephilim, the merciless smiting that had cemented Sandalphon in his memory as a violent enforcer whose place in Heaven shouldn’t have shocked Aziraphale (though it did). Even the way Yeshua’s coming had played out carried something of his touch, there at the end, though the punished might not have known it at the time. Still, Aziraphale thinks, there is no specific _law_ about _sex_ with a demon. It’s not much of a defense, he knows: Most likely, it simply had not occurred to them that there would need to be.

* * *

Some time later, he finishes the paperwork, his leg jittering under the desk. As he sets the last paper atop the stack, the whole sheaf vanishes, the cordon comes down, and there she is.

“Aziraphale,” Michael says. She usually says it correctly, but now it comes out like _Azirafell_ , not like Crowley says it, not like Aziraphale says it himself. He remembers once, Crowley telling him that sometimes the other demons still called him Crawly. Something clenches inside of him as he looks around, trying to push the thoughts of the demon out of his mind. If Raguel is about, he must. It’s best not to take chances where he’s concerned, even if Aziraphale is fairly certain Raguel can’t actually read minds. But no one pushes in behind Michael. She is alone. Her skin glows. She looks cold and blazing at the same time, like a sword.

“This way,” she says. And her hands on him, too, are like metal: cold, hard, the touch seeming to gleam as only the touch of an ethereal body on an uncorporate form can.

“I finished the paperwork,” Aziraphale says. “So—”

“Yes,” Michael says. “But as Gabriel told you, we kept your body in decontamination because we knew there was something odd...there. Raphael couldn’t place it. We assumed it was just due to being on Earth for so long. But Raguel has just finished his examination of the corporation. So there are a few things we need to iron out. Raguel is reviewing your paperwork, but I’ve asked him to let us handle the interview, because I think, don’t you, that it would be best if you just _told_ us, in your own words, the truth?”

“The truth?”

“About the demon Crowley, Aziraphale. Please follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, Oscar Wilde really did go to Monte Carlo with Bosie shortly after his legal woes began. He had a miserable time, though it seems like Bosie had fun.
> 
> 2\. The Earl of Rosebery, Archibald Philip Primrose, was Prime Minister. There was speculation that he had a romantic relationship with Queensberry’s _other_ son (i.e., not Bosie), who was then shot on a hunting party. People thought maybe it was a suicide or murder. There was some suggestion that Queensberry held this over his head and used it to manipulate him into making sure the government came down hard on Oscar.
> 
> 3\. Oscar’s line to Crowley is taken from the last letter he wrote to Bosie before going to prison: "My sweet rose, my delicate flower, my lily of lilies, it is perhaps in prison that I am going to test the power of love. I am going to see if I cannot make the bitter waters sweet by the intensity of the love I bear you."
> 
> cw: discorporation (no one actually dies!), implied violence, mentions of blood, homophobic slurs, mentions of body fluids associated with sexual activity, sexual shaming, medical lack of bodily autonomy.


	9. Outcasts Always Mourn (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale faces some of those consequences I mentioned in the summary. Crowley deals with life and faces some unexpected consequences of his own after attempting to thwart Hell's plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags are very important for this chapter. Full cw at the end.
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for the beta!

Michael leads Aziraphale down the hall he’d come out into before, or one that looks exactly like it. He can’t tell. He doesn’t remember Heaven being like this: the angels in fashionable attire, and everything so colossal and austere and cold. The other angels who pass nod at Michael; if they acknowledge Aziraphale at all, it’s with pity, or confusion—perhaps because he’s with her? Because he just seems unfamiliar or out of step from having been away so long? He can’t be sure. He can’t know what they already know.

At the end of the hall, there is nothing. Michael stops him before he walks into it.

“Raguel’s in there,” she says. She pushes open a door instead, at the end of the hall. “We’ll be in here.”

Aziraphale is surprised when she pushes open the door, to find himself in a homey looking wood-paneled room, with books on the wall. Gabriel and Uriel are sitting there. Sandalphon stands by Gabriel’s side, but as they enter, Gabriel nods at Sandalphon, who offers Aziraphale another of his grins as he walks out of the room. As Aziraphale takes the seat Michael waves him into, a teapot with a set of cups materializes on the small wooden table in front of him. He pours himself a cup because it seems like what he ought to do. The smell is unmistakable. Earl Grey with lavender. It almost puts him at ease. Almost. But of course it’s not quite real. He has no body, after all.

“Aziraphale,” Michael says. “We’re a small audience here. Just us. Familiar faces. You know all of us well, and we’ve kept the group small on purpose. We hope you feel comfortable. We want to communicate to you that we are ready to hear your story. We’re ready to be understanding, forgiving even, should that prove necessary. We want you to tell us what happened.”

“Remember the power of penitence,” Uriel says. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”

“Just don’t lie,” Gabriel says. “All right?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what they’re getting at, where to begin. He drinks several sips of tea in succession because he doesn’t know what to do. It’s discomfiting not to feel the tea inside of him, warming him, calming him.

“Aziraphale,” Uriel says. “This obfuscation would not be necessary if you felt forced.”

“Obfuscation? Forced?” Aziraphale sets the teacup down, frowning. He has no idea, any longer, what is happening here.

“A rogue demon,” Michael says. “One who would force himself onto an angel, sexually. That would not be your fault, if you were...unprepared for such an attack. There’s no need for you to conceal that. You can tell us. You will not be blamed.”

“What?” Aziraphale is confused, dimly aware that they were meant to be talking about Crowley, but this doesn’t fit at all, and he doesn’t understand what they’re saying, how he ought to respond. He tries to keep his face still, tries to avoid showing the anguish and worry he feels, but he knows it’s probably too late.

“There is no reason to lie, no reason to feel any shame at such a thing. We have not abandoned you, however it may have felt. Tell us, and we will take it up with Hell. Such measures against an angel are outside the bounds of their business and will not be tolerated.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, the word popping out of him reflexively at the thought of Crowley’s punishment.

Michael bites a lip, flickers her eyes at the other two. “Then,” Gabriel says. “You were _tempted_.”

“I—” _Crowley._ The idea of the demon is overwhelming. Aziraphale loves him, had loved him. But it has been so long since he’s seen him, and he’s surprised to find that thinking of Crowley feels like a memory now, something from years ago. And this—this isn’t the memory. Doesn’t belong anywhere near it. Forced? Tempted? Crowley’s hand in his at the river Seine. The gentle kiss on his forehead when he’d apologized for being jealous of Oscar. His excruciating carefulness. His earnest, if transient, fear that Aziraphale had fallen to an unwitting, unintended temptation, a thing that didn’t even exist, because Crowley had been so afraid of rejection, so afraid that Aziraphale didn’t, or couldn’t, really want him. And then: the reverent hands, the gentle press of his lips, his attentiveness, his care. There is no way to explain any of that to Archangels.

“Sit down, Aziraphale,” says Uriel. Her voice is gentle but cold. Aziraphale had not realized he was standing. Bodiless, he does not have a heart, but his chest feels bound, constricted, if not by its form, then by its shape, its very existence. The room, he realizes, has no windows. Irrationally, the thought fills him with panic. He turns, looking for the door, and it’s not there anymore.

“Sit _down_ ,” Gabriel snaps. Aziraphale sits. When Gabriel speaks again, his words are vituperative, his voice booming. “He was all over you. We said _traces_ , but there wasn’t a place on your _Heavenly_ corporation, or even your fucking _clothing_ that wasn’t _saturated_ with him. We found his hair on your coat. We found his body cells, his magic, his infernal... _miracles_ , for lack of a better word almost everywhere they could be. Inside of your corporation, even. We said _traces_ because there is no word for what we found. The way...you...it’s so disgusting none of us could have imagined. We don’t even have a word for this kind of indiscretion. And now I find that this is because you _allowed it to happen_. _Allowed_ a demon to just take what he wanted from you? To use your corporation to slake his lust? What the Hell were you thinking? What did you think you were doing, Aziraphale? Were you tempted? Or did you think there was some greater good? Just—explain yourself. Please.”

Aziraphale cannot move. There is nothing he can say. He realizes that he is breathing, or mimicking the action at least, doing it rapidly, and he attempts to slow it, his hands wrapped around each other, wringing.

“Please,” he says.

“Sin can be forgiven,” Uriel says. Gabriel glares at her. Aziraphale does not miss it.

“I loved him,” he says, aware that he’s used the past tense. But he loves him still. He always will, he’s sure. And now there can be no hope of getting back, of ever seeing him again.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, standing up, shaking his head. “Are you really that stupid?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Aziraphale says, because they all look very tense, and there’s a kind of hunger in them that he recognizes, remembers (Crowley, bloodied, bruised, nearly drowned). But his assurance doesn’t help. “I don’t think it was...a temptation exactly.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Uriel repeats. And it’s not a question, but the tone suggests that she wants him to elaborate.

“I just...wanted to be with him. He didn’t take. You see? I gave. Out of love.”

Gabriel’s lips press together, his brows drawing further down his face. Revulsion. Aziraphale flickers his eyes away from it. Michael’s expression is softer: stern, but pitying.

“Oh, _Aziraphale_ ,” she says. “Surely you know you’re not meant to extend your love to the Fallen.”

“They can only twist it, distort it. _Pervert_ it into...this,” Uriel says.

“No,” Aziraphale says. But it’s a reflex. He casts around for the certainty he’d felt on Earth with Crowley, their bodies wrapped together, sinking into each other. He has no body now, but he can remember it, the ghost of the feelings, the desire he’d allowed to carry him. Had that happened because Crowley was a demon? Had his love been turned into something else just by Crowley’s nature? Was that what Crowley had meant when he’d spoken of inspiring lust without meaning to? But Aziraphale knew that didn’t make sense. You could no more hold Crowley responsible for that than you could a plate of macarons for inspiring gluttony. Surely.

“Then, you do not repent?” Michael says.

“I’m a being of love,” Aziraphale says. Gabriel frowns at him like he’s stated the obvious, and all right, perhaps he has, but— “He’s been there as long as I have,” Aziraphale says. “We...got to know each other. He’s not like the demons you hear about,” Aziraphale says. The Archangels exchange glances.

“Aziraphale—” Uriel cuts in.

“Please let me speak,” Aziraphale says gently. “He was _kind_ to me. He was _there_. He listened to me. Protected me. How could I not love him? You know, I served the humans—”

“You serve Heaven,” Gabriel snaps. Aziraphale ignores him and continues.

“I loved them, as I was made to do in service to _God_. But they die. So quickly. And he was always there. Who else could I love?”

“Is this about your reports?” Uriel says. “About not hearing from Heaven?”

“Good lord!” Gabriel explodes. “You’re telling me that in the absence of a specific directive from Heaven, you were so damned lonely and needy you didn’t know any better than to fuck a demon?”

Aziraphale winced, blinking back tears. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“You did it more than once!” Gabriel shouts now, looking around at the others, as if this has just occurred to him. “Didn’t you? How many times?”

It hardly seems like a real question. For one thing, it’s incredibly rude. For another, it’s not clear _exactly_ what Gabriel is asking, and anyway, it isn’t as if Aziraphale has kept track of the number of times he and Crowley had made love by any definition of the term. But his silence is good enough for them. Michael presses a hand to her mouth, eyes wide, then lowered, trying too late for some semblance of respect.

“You see the error of your ways,” Uriel says. There’s a silence.

“If I say no, will I Fall?” Aziraphale says, finally. He feels he could take it; he’d always known it was a possibility. And he’s had all the mounds of paperwork, all the interruptions from various Archangels, to make enough time, enough opportunities for the idea to arise, for him to start to accept it. And he’s not sure how Hell works, exactly, or how long it’s already been on Earth, but perhaps he’d get to see Crowley again eventually. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. But Michael shakes her head.

“No one Falls anymore, Aziraphale,” she says. “And it wouldn’t have been recommended as a punishment for something like this. After all, you can hardly have given him any of Heaven’s secrets when you didn’t know them yourself. Falling was essentially punishment for a war crime. And the time for that has passed.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, and his voice is different now, like he’s forcing calmness, patience. “You can see, surely, that he was trying to manipulate you? Now that you’ve come back to the Host, you can see that? It wasn’t real. Whatever he…said or did to get you to let down your guard.”

Aziraphale hesitates. He remembers Crowley, in the apple orchard, pressing the apple to his lips, how guileless his overt temptation had seemed, the way Aziraphale relaxed so thoroughly around the demon that he’d been shocked to find him standing over Albert’s broken figure. Crowley had only been defending himself, defending Aziraphale, he’d understood later, but in that moment, that one moment, Aziraphale had _seen_ how dangerous a demon could be, had seen _Crowley_ that way for the first time...But Aziraphale had been wrong in _that_ moment, not all the others. Crowley would never have come back to him, held him, let Aziraphale see him weep, if he was the kind of being these Archangels thought he was, something dark and sullying. No, he’d been by Aziraphale’s side for the better part of a century, absorbing Aziraphale’s love and reflecting it back at him brighter, amplified a thousandfold. He’d protected him for nearly a thousand years, had been good company for him for even longer. It had taken Aziraphale a long time to realize it, but Crowley was nothing like the demons he’d been warned about, nothing like an angel, either, despite what he’d once been; he was another kind of being entirely, one who made Aziraphale’s heart swoop and soar, one who made him feel real and alive and complete, like he’d finally found where he belonged—on Earth at his side.

But if he can’t get back to that, then what does any of it matter? His eyes prickle uncomfortably, his body feeling compressed under their scrutiny as he feels grief sweep over him.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “Is this the...first time you’ve realized this?” He looks at Michael, who presses her eyes closed as if searching for wisdom or patience.

“This must be very hard for you,” she says, opening her eyes. She holds his gaze. “I can’t imagine....trusting a demon. But to have done so, and find yourself waking up from that kind of blindness must be difficult.”

“We are merciful,” says Gabriel. And he sounds like he’s reciting something, like the words aren’t his.

Aziraphale feels himself begin to weep again, the sensation so deep and so unfulfilling, in the way that crying within a body is not. The tears slide and fall, but they do not linger. Gabriel stirs and then he’s standing in front of Aziraphale, holding out his arms, pressing his hands to Aziraphale, and pulling him to his chest. _Oh_ , Aziraphale thinks, repulsed, but not strongly enough to object, to push him away.

“Forgive me for neglecting you so profoundly,” Gabriel says, holding him. He still sounds like he’s reciting. But the next thing he says is real enough. “We will repair this damage.”

Aziraphale feels stiff in his arms, wonders when he will let go.

* * *

When the Archangels leave, Aziraphale is left alone in the room. It still has no door. Where before, there had been four chairs, there’s now only a low, leather couch. The wood is darker now, where at first it had been bright, almost like in his bookshop. He lowers himself onto the couch and rolls over, pressing his face to the back of it. He wishes he had his body back. Wishes he could make himself inebriated, put himself to sleep.

He does not know how long he is alone before Uriel is back.

“Are you sorry, Aziraphale?” she says. “Do you wish for Her forgiveness?”

“Is She displeased?” Aziraphale says. He does not mean for it to sound snippy, but there it is, as Gabriel had said before, _prim_. Uriel blinks at him a moment before she responds.

“How could she be otherwise?” she asks.

Aziraphale bites his lip. He knows he’s treading on dangerous ground here, but he has to know. “So you’ve...not spoken with her, then? I mean, she’s not _told_ you?”

“Of course not. She doesn’t—” Uriel shakes her head, looking sorrowful. “Aziraphale. When you are ready to repent, we can begin. Call me anytime.”

It happens again. Uriel’s unannounced arrivals, her question always the same. Two or three more times. And Aziraphale does not know how long it is between them. The second time, he’d _called_ Uriel, had asked her whether if he repented, it would be possible for him to return to Earth. She’d told him that seemed unwise, and then he’d mentioned the trial, and Uriel had shaken her head again and said that that was already over.

Aziraphale had wept again then, for a long time.

And then there were Gabriel’s visits. Far more regular, and Aziraphale could not say which visits he dreads the most. Where Uriel’s reduce him to tears, Gabriel’s make him angry, make him feel invaded. Gabriel pushing his body close to Aziraphale’s incorporeal form, wrapping his arms around him, firmly, like he’s learned thoroughly the principles of how to give a good hug, but is woefully short on practice. The first time Gabriel came to hug him, Aziraphale said, “You know, you don’t need to do this—”

“You’ve said that it was a lack of affection and interaction with Heaven that caused you to give in to the demon. I’m trying to make up for that. He didn’t touch your essence or your wings, according to Raguel. And as I’m obviously not willing to merge with you or groom your wings or Heaven forbid, engage in _carnal relations_ , and anyway you don’t have a body at the moment—”

“Raguel?” Aziraphale cuts him off, pushing his last words from his mind, more repulsed than he had thought possible.

“Yes. He was just outside this room for a long time, Aziraphale. He’s checked your essence quite thoroughly, and found it undamaged. I find it hard to believe that joining with a demon in that way would leave no damage. He was apparently careful with your body, but, boy, if you’d let him touch your essence, he’d have probably seized the opportunity to destroy you.”

Did Gabriel know something he didn’t? Was there something about that kind of deep, unfettered access that brought out the urge to destroy in a demon? Had Crowley truly been trying to protect Aziraphale? But how would Gabriel even know, if such a thing existed? Surely no angel had tried it. And Aziraphale can’t believe that Crowley’s essence, the core of what he is, would hurt him.

Aziraphale swallows.

“You need _something_ ,” Gabriel says. “Don’t you? I want you to succeed, Aziraphale. Let me help you.”

From then on Aziraphale endures Gabriel’s hugs silently, wondering if the revulsion he feels is what the others feel when they imagine his coupling with Crowley.

He’d once suggested wing grooming to Crowley, but that had made him uncomfortable. Before that, he had wanted to share his essence with Crowley, too; but Crowley had not wanted that either. It hadn’t been Aziraphale who hadn’t wanted those things, either of them. He remembered the forceful reaction the demon had had to his suggestion of merging their essences. The way he’d looked horrified and then covered for himself by saying that it wasn’t safe, even though he must have known it wouldn’t hurt them, either of them. He simply hadn’t wanted to, and it had been all right. But he’d shut down after that, had seemed to panic, and Aziraphale had told him he didn’t have to, that it was fine, and Crowley had finally calmed down, his head in Aziraphale’s lap and after a while he’d rubbed his face suggestively against Aziraphale’s crotch, making him gasp, and then he’d grinned and unbuttoned him, and…

Aziraphale turned away from the memory, which feels different, almost embarrassing, without his body’s response to it. And perhaps Raguel _can_ see his _thoughts_ in addition to his essence. Is he still there, watching Aziraphale? If he and Crowley had shared essences then, what would Raguel have seen? Would anything be different for him now? What did Raguel see when he looked at Aziraphale’s essence now? Were there gaps there, or flaws, something to explain why he’d never fit in Heaven, why it was that he was always on his own and such a disappointment?

* * *

When Aziraphale feels the ripple, he assumes it’s Uriel, because it doesn’t feel punishing, overbearing the way it does with Gabriel, but when he looks around, there’s no one. Instead, there’s a door come back, and as he approaches it—eager to leave the confines, but afraid of what’s next—there comes a knock. He bites back his disappointment, sighing, and reaches for the door as the knock comes a second time. _Who would knock?_ he thinks. He opens the door instead of calling out, assuming that perhaps it couldn’t be opened from outside.

And there is Giriale, her long dark hair pinned partly back, her eyes as green as Raphael’s, stunning against her dark skin.

Aziraphale has not seen her since before the beginning, but she was the only one he would want to see, one of the other Guardians of the Gates of Eden, another Principality.

“Aziraphale!” she says, smiling. She holds out her arms. “May I?”

“Oh, yes!” Aziraphale gladly hugs her, the door closing behind her as she steps inside, looking around.

“Interesting place,” she says. “Books.” She picks one up and turns it over in her hand before setting it down again on the end table where the teapot is now steaming again in welcome.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Do you like them?”

“I’ve never used one,” she says.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He does not know how to explain to her that one _reads_ them, the same as one might an angelic scroll.

“I would have come sooner,” she says. “But I didn’t know...I didn’t know you were here. Gabriel was saying something bad had happened to you, and you’d been discorporated, and...oh, Aziraphale. I really had no idea. He said they have to keep you apart from the others. That you’ve been...damaged.”

Aziraphale blanches. “I don’t know,” he says, finally.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Giriale is warm, not like the others. Aziraphale wonders how she’s managed to hold on to it. He pours her a cup of tea and gestures her into the chair that’s now by the door. He sits across from her on his couch. He’s really grown quite attached to it now, and it doesn’t disappear for the visitors anymore.

“How have _you_ been?” he asks her, before she can ask the question that seems on the tip of her tongue. He wonders how much they’ve told her of his various failures on Earth. His refusal to repent. But his smile, when he offers it to her, is genuine, and it’s the first time it’s been genuine since he’s been back in Heaven, and it does feel so good. He has not thought of her in years, and yet here she is, unchanged. They had never been close, but he had always liked her, thought well of her.

“I’m quite well. Working with Gabriel and Raphael on some innovations in human science,” she said. “I dip down occasionally. Well, not for a long time, honestly. But...around the time Sandalphon came on, I suppose was the last time.”

“That’s been thousands of years!” Aziraphale says.

“Is that long?” Giriale shrugs. “You...miss it.” It’s not a question. Aziraphale nods.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“What—there?”

“Well, I suppose. But I meant here. Aren’t you lonely, here in this room all the time?”

“I don’t have a choice, my dear.”

Giriale blinks at him. The endearment, he thinks. Oh, perhaps it wasn’t prudent if it wasn’t understood here. But Giriale smiles. “Let’s go,” she says, standing up and holding out a hand. She hasn’t touched her tea. “Don’t you want to eat something, see the others?”

“The others?” No. The truth is, he does not want to see the others. He’s not at all sure he’d be able to stand it, the scrutiny. What have they been told about him? The best he can hope for is that they have heard nothing at all.

“Just...get out a bit?” Giriale says. Her face is bright and open, and she is still holding out her hand. Aziraphale sighs, reaches out, and takes it.

* * *

The food is not so good in Heaven. Aziraphale remembers that now. There is the discomfiting sensation of it moving into his essence, no sense of it interacting with him physically in any way. There is certainly no _flavor_ to speak of. Even so, Aziraphale forces it down. He and Giriale sit at a tiny table in the back of the large dining hall. The other angels stay well away from them, and he thinks he sees her avert her eyes from them, but she says nothing.

When the meal is over, Giriale comes back with him. They take tea together and finish their conversation—Aziraphale telling her about his bookshop.

“I’ll come back,” she says, when she gets ready to leave. And Aziraphale struggles to keep his disappointment from his face at her departure.

But she does come back. Over and over. When she is there, there is a door to his room, and when he is with her, he can leave.

When Gabriel visits for the first time after Giriale’s appearances have begun, Aziraphale speaks before he touches him, hoping to stave it off.

“Giriale comes to see me,” he says. “She...takes me out.”

“Yes. I know,” Gabriel says. “It’s all right.” He opens his arms as if he expects Aziraphale to step into them. Aziraphale sighs.

“Giriale does this,” he says. “So...you don’t have to.”

“Oh!” Gabriel says. “Oh, good. So you’re...you’re feeling better.”

Better? Is he? Aziraphale supposes he is. He is, at least, not quite so lonely, so isolated.

“It’s nice having her company,” he says, finally.

“Good,” Gabriel whispers, as if he’s thinking about something else. He does not touch Aziraphale. “So, you’re OK if I just...all right.”

And he’s gone.

* * *

Giriale keeps coming. They laugh together. It reminds Aziraphale of Crowley. The way he’d expect a visit that would then come, the way he’d look forward to it, try to make things homey and welcoming for his guest. The feeling of not being judged, or perhaps of being judged a little and not found wanting. But he misses _Crowley_ when she’s gone. Misses Earth, when he’s in this room.

That day, Giriale walks him through one of the old prototypic gardens, the two of them remembering Eden, and as they come upon a tree, studded with bright fruit, Aziraphale is overcome with a wave of grief, nearly falling to his knees with it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says, over and over again, apologizing to Giriale, at first, for his emotion, and then over and over, thinking only of Crowley, who he’d left, Crowley, who’d asked him this one time, to wait for him, to be there for him when he returned. “I’m so sorry, oh. I’m so sorry.”

Giriale takes his hand, then seems to decide this is insufficient, and hugs him again. Aziraphale had told Gabriel that she did this regularly, but the truth is, she has only hugged him a handful of times, when he’s felt a bit emotional and they’ve wrapped up an evening of his discussion of some difficult time he’d experienced on Earth, or told her of his frustration at being kept apart from everyone, from feeling as if he no longer belonged to the Host. They have not spoken of Crowley. At least not more than in passing.

This time is different, he knows. She rubs his back gently as he sobs, truly grieving now that he has someone to help him through it. Because there must be another side to it, mustn’t there? There must be some day when it will stop.

“Aziraphale,” she says. “I remember Crawly. _Crowley_. Will you...tell me what happened?”

“You _know_?”

Giriale hesitates. She takes his hand and leads him to a large rock, where they both sit. “I work with Gabriel, too,” she says. “Remember?”

“So, he _sent_ you? Is that what this is?”

“No. No.” She shakes her head firmly. “I only mean that he told me—told everyone, really—that there was an issue with infernal contamination. And it could only be the demon Crowley. I mean, I assume it was him. He was the only one stationed on Earth, after all. The only one _assigned_ there. I remember him. How he was...different from what they warned us about.”

Aziraphale is weeping again. He can’t stop.

“It’s all right,” Giriale says, reaching over to take his hand. “You’re safe now. He can’t get at you here.”

Aziraphale’s chest clenches at her words. He feels dizzy. “I love him, Giriale.”

“The _demon_?” She’s smiling, like she’s sure she’s misunderstood. Aziraphale can’t look at her. He nods. Her lips part slightly, her mouth forming a tiny _o_.

“Please,” he says. But she’s nodding, now, and looking at him, and she hasn’t let go of his hand. He looks down at the ground, grassy but somehow sterile, somehow not at all like Earth, even though it’s the closest he’s seen in Heaven.

“How long has it been?” he asks her. “Since I left?”

“Since you left Earth? I don’t know. I don’t really understand how they measure that. Time.”

They sit there for a while in the quiet. Aziraphale’s tears slow and stop. He wipes them reflexively, though it is not necessary, really, as they dissipate on their own.

“Aziraphale,” Giriale says. “There’s something I don’t understand.”

There’s nothing cold or punishing in her tone, so he looks at her, waiting for her to go on.

“Do you think he tempted you? Or...do you think it was it something else?”

 _“Oh_ ,” he says. “You—yes, I could feel that he loved me. I could. He never...he never even had to say it. But he did, because he knew I liked to hear it.” Aziraphale blinks at himself, nearly pressing his hand over his mouth. But what does it matter? Let the whole Host hear him. They wouldn’t believe him anyway. “Temptation isn’t something that’s done to you,” he says. “Not real temptation, anyway. It’s something you feel. Something you want, that perhaps you shouldn’t. But do you understand, Giriale—the wanting is the important thing. If I gave in to Crowley—if I was tempted—it was because I wanted to.”

“Aziraphale,” Giriale says. “I know it felt that way…”

“No,” he says. “It _was_ that way.” There’s a silence. Giriale hesitates.

“OK,” she says, finally. “I’m sorry.” She reaches for him again, and he lets her; it feels good to hold on to someone.

* * *

This time, Giriale does not come back. And when Gabriel does, it’s with Sandalphon. The door doesn’t disappear behind them.

“Gabriel, what—”

“Walk,” Gabriel says, his hand landing on Aziraphale’s back, between his shoulders.

They march him through the door, down the endless hall, into the decontamination chamber. His heart lurches, surges, because it’s where his body is, and yes, _there_ is his body! And Raphael. But everyone is so grim, and Sandalphon’s eyes look positively greedy.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “I thought we were just waiting for you to abandon your _love_ for the demon. Waiting for it to fade, if you will, so you would _finally_ repent. But now I’ve heard something...disturbing about you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker over to his own body. He does not like the sensation. Especially not with Gabriel standing in front of him, speaking to him like this. He has a sense of what Gabriel will say. He shivers, empty and cold, the way he’d felt when he’d first arrived, but the feeling is something numb now; he doesn’t know how long it has been since then. Even if they return him to his body, even if they send him back to Earth, just to get rid of him, there is no guarantee that Crowley would still welcome him, no guarantee that Crowley is still there at all. That’s it, he thinks. Crowley is back in Hell. And they’ll send Aziraphale back and he’ll have to be there on Earth without him.

“Giriale tells me that you believe the demon Crowley loved _you_. That you believe you could sense it. His _love._ ”

“Giriale,” Aziraphale says. And yes, it’s more or less what he’d thought, but he hadn’t let himself believe that she would do this. It feels like the life has drained from him. Once again, he has lost his whole world, and this time, he hadn’t even known it _was_ his world to lose. He should feel more shocked, perhaps, but he doesn’t. Isn’t even surprised, not after that initial suspicion there in the garden, that _I work with Gabriel, too_.

“You still don’t understand, she tells me, that this was an illusion. Even now, after you’ve returned to the Host. You still don’t feel the difference. Between our love, and the complete bastardization—”

“I’m afraid I don’t feel your love at all,” Aziraphale says.

There’s a silence. Gabriel blinks at him, his face pulling taut, his jaw working. His body is tight, his movements oddly restrained, seeming to snap. He shakes his head. “This isn’t idiocy, he says, his voice rising. “This is _pride_. This is nothing but _fucking pride_ , sunshine. To believe that _you_ can inspire a demon to change his very nature, to believe that you are set outside of— _above_ the Host, that you deserve something _better_ than what you are _given_? When you are given _Grace_.”

“No. No, but Gabriel, if _this_ is love, then I don’t recognize it.”

“Not enough like what you had with that _filthy demon_? If those are your standards, then I wouldn’t expect you to recognize it.”

“Before,” Aziraphale tries. “When She made us—I don’t feel her love here, the way I did then. The way I did on Earth, even.”

Gabriel draws back, an appalled look on his face. “How dare you?” he says. “Compare the monstrous, repellent _abomination_ you had with a demon with the love of the Almighty—”

“No! That wasn’t—I meant _Her_ love. On Earth. I could feel it there.” But Gabriel is still shaking his head. He’s heard. He’s understood. Aziraphale frowns. Had it been so terrible, what he’d said? Worse than what he’d done with Crowley?

And then he has an idea. Perhaps if he could speak to the Almighty directly, they might sort this all out. Surely she would understand that he felt as he did, that he couldn’t simply turn it off, but perhaps if she could offer some insights, it might be helpful. To them both? After all, Gabriel and the other Archangels insisted one thing—that Crowley had simply been playing a sort of long game with him—but it was based on no evidence at all; and Aziraphale insisted another—that he knew love when he felt it—but apparently they didn’t believe that. And _oughtn’t_ he to recognize it here, if that was true? Surely in her presence, he would feel it. And perhaps Gabriel might feel a difference, too, might understand what he’d meant. “Gabriel,” he says, “Gabriel, is there any possibility I—or we—might have an audience with—?”

But Gabriel’s glare is hard, Aziraphale’s hope dies before he can even get the sentence out, and Gabriel cuts him off.

“Raphael, Sandalphon.” Gabriel nods at them, not looking at Aziraphale, and he is gone—not walking away, simply not there.

Raphael approaches him, grasps his hands and guides him to his body. He positions Aziraphale in front of it, and then aligns Aziraphale’s fingertips with that of the body. He closes his bright eyes and concentrates, Aziraphale staring, and then, he’s in his body again.

“ _Oh._ ” He exhales, moving, feeling it. “What—?” he tries again. But Raphael shakes his head. And then Sandalphon is approaching. He makes an odd little sideways motion with his head and Raphael grimaces, twists the air, and then he, too, is gone.

Sandalphon looks around. “Well, well,” he says. He’s holding a club. Had he _been_ holding that club? Aziraphale doesn’t remember seeing it. It’s long and straight, and emblazoned with golden sigils. It looks like a hard wood. Aziraphale’s mouth opens. There’s nothing that can be said before it’s hitting him, and he’s on the ground, and it’s cold, so cold, but not cold enough to numb. Sandalphon’s foot is braced on the side of his head, the sole of his shoe smooth against his face. The Archangel looks down at him, the pain in Aziraphale’s side blooming.

“I can do this for an eternity,” Sandalphon says. “Repent.”

“I’m—I don’t know what I’ve done—”

“You’re proud.” Sandalphon steps back, Aziraphale scrambling away, as the club comes down again and again in the same spot. “You’re stupid. You’re a traitor. You’re disloyal.” Aziraphale cries out, hearing the crunch of his ribs breaking under Sandalphon’s strength. “You’re depraved, disgusting, foolish, contaminated, completely defiled, body and soul, unworthy of your name.” The hits are coming faster now, Sandalphon shifting targets, as Aziraphale tries to roll away and is miracled roughly to a stop. The Archangel’s cruel words are inside him, as if the club had put them there, scoring them deep into his essence. Everything inside of him feels broken. There is blood on the floor, he notices. Rather a lot of it, really and the pool of it is only growing. “You’re lost, useless. Failure of an angel. Waste of Creation.”

“Please,” he says, and he looks up. Sandalphon’s club is miraculously bloodless, and Aziraphale dimly realizes that he should not be conscious. Sandalphon had not hit his head, but the pain alone would have caused any ordinary body to shut down. His own discorporation had not been so violent, so painful. He coughs, gasps, struggling for air, his ribcage shattered, pressing painfully into his lungs.

“Can’t discorporate here,” Sandalphon says, seeming to understand.

“Please,” Aziraphale groans. “I—”

“You _what?_ What do you think you can say to stop your punishment? You think a _demon loved_ you. I can see for myself that you are as stupid and pathetic as they’ve always said.” Sandalphon kicks him. He seems to have grown a bit winded, and Aziraphale hears his heavy breathing as he curls in on himself, struggling for his own air. Sandalphon’s words detach from their semantic use as he hears them: _You. Demon. Love. Stupid. Pathetic. Always._

“I can’t...breathe.”

Sandalphon laughs. “Did you forget?” he says. “You don’t need to. You really are a damned fool.” Aziraphale feels the pain in every part of him like a current, stabbing in and flowing, the pains separate and connecting to each other, flowing through him in a web as the blood drains from him.

Sandalphon looks down at him, his face flickering before him as Aziraphale forces his eyes open, again and again, trying to read his expression, to gain some warning about what he’ll do next. “Do you wish you were human?” Sandalphon says. “You’d be dead by now. Dead and gone. Do you understand that?”

“I—”

“Do you understand that that is what will happen to you if you don’t repent?”

“I’ll be...human?” Aziraphale says, struggling to understand, to form words.

“You’ll be _gone_!” Sandalphon roars. “We are not _endlessly_ patient.”

Aziraphale hears footsteps. Then nothing.

He does not know how long he lies there, bleeding.

* * *

Crowley wakes to the sound of fervent banging. His body writhes, lurches, as he struggles back to consciousness, heart already pounding.

“Hello?” he shouts, voice creaking. He sits up, pushing away a cobweb, shaking hair out of his eyes. His spine is stiff. _Oh, it hurts. Satan, how long has it been?_

“Mr. Crowley?”

“Yeah, what?” Crowley stands, his flesh shifting on his bones, gravity pulling in new directions. He groans into it, and the discomfort dissipates.

From outside the room he can hear a confused melee of hushed voices.

Finally, one of them responds. “You’re going to have to pay your bill or leave the room.”

“Not a problem,” Crowley says. “Just…” he sighs, waves a hand over the room, clearing up the bottles, the dust. He walks to the door, glasses in place, hair slicked back, clothes appropriate for 1895, but understated, nothing that would attract too much attention. Just in case.

He pulls the door open.

“Hello,” he repeats. “I’ll do both. How much do I owe?”

* * *

Once Crowley has paid—nothing exorbitant, so not too long then—he packs up his few possessions, mostly just the books, a couple of pieces of jewelry and art, and makes his way across town. Aziraphale is not back. He can feel that much. And the newspaper he’s got reveals it’s been nearly ten years. _So forty to go_ , he thinks, wryly. Outside the bookshop, the hansom driver stops, and Crowley jumps out, approaching the place. Inside, he miracles away the dust, cursing his carelessness at not protecting it better. Aziraphale could come back at any moment. The place has to be better. He has to be better, do better. He takes his things upstairs. He’ll stay here tonight. He’ll stay here until Aziraphale is back.

Crowley ventures down into the shop, looking for reading material. He’s not going back to sleep, he decides. He’s going to wait for the angel. He sits on the couch, makes himself a coffee, reads a depressing Thomas Hardy novel Aziraphale had once mentioned, and feels productive. When he finishes, he walks down to a restaurant and forces himself to go through the motions of eating lunch. _Lunch,_ he thinks. _What do people order for lunch?_ Crowley has never paid much attention to anyone’s food except Aziraphale’s. Or rather, to Aziraphale, while he’s eating it. He tells the waiter to bring him something from the menu, hoping that will do. The waiter frowns at him, nods. Crowley finds himself with a pile of steaming mashed white lumps (potatoes? parsnips?) and greying vegetables, all covered in some kind of sauce. It didn’t look like anything Aziraphale had ever ordered. But he tries. He pokes at it, eats a few bites before giving it up as a bad job. OK, no eating in restaurants without Aziraphale. Not worth it. Did people really shove these concoctions down their throats every single day?

How had he done this before? Lived? He has no desire to resume his temptations, not when he feels as if he’s holding his breath, waiting. Not when he feels so close to breaking. If he did something, and things went wrong, and Aziraphale wasn’t here to help fix them...no.

Back in the shop, he turns to hang up his coat and there’s someone there, pushing open the door behind him before he can lock up.

“Hello,” the young woman says, shyly, ducking under her hat and looking around. She steps into the shop and disappears behind a bookshelf. _Bollocks._

So he goes behind the counter and waits. Fortunately, she doesn’t try to buy anything, and when she’s gone, he starts to miracle up a quick _closed_ sign ( _Is it not enough for people that the place has been locked for more than ten years?_ ), but then he stops himself. What’s the harm, really, in opening the shop sometimes? Not that he’d actually sell anything, of course. Just. Here and there. For something to do.

So he does.

It’s not a perfect arrangement. Crowley isn’t, after all, completely himself. And he does still sleep a bit too much. Does still drink too much. And he doesn’t exactly have a passion for running a bookshop. It’s just an extension of what he’d set out to do, to keep the place ready for Aziraphale’s return.

And then there’s a missive from Hell.

Crowley has not been reading the news, not even the Infernal Times, but he can’t ignore a direct missive. And so he travels to Sarajevo one June. His instructions were very specific, even if oddly cryptic, fed directly into his mind. ( _Good work, Crowley, with setting things up this way on such a global scale. We wouldn’t want this arrangement to go to waste, would we? So here’s a little help. Are you listening?_ ) So he waits where he’s supposed to. He’s supposed to give the wrong instructions to someone, but he doesn’t. He gives the right ones, because if something happens and he can’t fix it with Aziraphale, he doesn’t want to deal with the fallout. He can tell Hell it was a mistake, that he misunderstood, if they notice. So he stops a discouraged seeming young man from fighting against the crowd, from lurking in wait (Crowley is a demon, he knows lurking when he sees it), and suggests that he go, instead, to have a lunch at a delicatessen. He doesn’t wait around for the man to go in and eat. For the puffed-up procession to find the way to where ever it is they’re meant to go.

No, he just snaps his fingers, back to the train station, and takes a series of trains to get back to London, not feeling up to a long-distance miracle. It had been easy, too easy, to flout his instructions, but now he’s tired. Too tired to even think.

He sleeps in the train, but he’s barely out of Serbia before he hears. By the time he’s in England, there’s a war on. The war to end all wars, they’re saying. That doesn’t mean they’ll stop, Crowley knows. Only a bit of human optimism borne out of the fact that this is the worst one yet. It doesn’t feel as bad as he would have expected. Instead, he feels numb, cold. Empty.

So he locks the bookshop, puts protections around it, from dust and people, and anything else, and goes upstairs. He doesn’t deserve to be here, he knows, but when Aziraphale comes back, he has to be, has to see him. If he finds somewhere else to be, Crowley will miss him when he returns. Aziraphale won’t be able to find him, even if he wants to. Because it’s not even been ten years since he woke up, and he’s going back to sleep. He can’t stand it otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: discussion of rape (no actual rape), beating/bloody violence, physical and emotional/mental abuse, nonconsensual hugging, sexual shaming, religious themes.
> 
> (And yes, the young man Crowley spoke to in Sarajevo was Gavilo Princip. And that puffed-up procession was for the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. Whoops.)


	10. With Soul and Body Marred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley recover from the events of the last chapter and prepare to face their biggest challenge yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With midnight always in one’s heart,   
> And twilight in one’s cell,   
> We turn the crank, or tear the rope,   
> Each in his separate Hell,   
> And the silence is more awful far   
> Than the sound of a brazen bell. 
> 
> And never a human voice comes near   
> To speak a gentle word:   
> And the eye that watches through the door   
> Is pitiless and hard:   
> And by all forgot, we rot and rot,   
> With soul and body marred.
> 
> —from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” by Oscar Wilde
> 
> Beta read by [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams).
> 
> Please check the content warnings at the end of the chapter if you're worried, and once again, I invite you to consider the tags. This one isn't as brutal as the last one, but it's another wild ride.

After a while, Aziraphale realizes that Raphael is standing over him. Aziraphale has noticed that his presence is smaller, somehow, than that of the other Archangels, and at first, Aziraphale doesn’t realize that he’s there at all. And then, suddenly, Raphael’s presence, his holiness, is growing, something concentrated pouring into him and he shudders against it.

“Shh,” Raphael says, and he reaches over and touches Aziraphale’s forehead with what can only be described as tenderness, brushing the sweaty hair off his face. “You’ll be all right,” he adds. He waves a hand over Aziraphale’s abdomen, and Aziraphale takes a deep, gasping breath, feeling only a slight twinge now. “That’s it. Breathe deep. I’ll heal you.” His hands close around Aziraphale’s knees, but he applies no pressure. They go hot, and he feels his legs regain feeling, the bones solid once again, and strong.

“Why? So they can do it again?” Aziraphale says, accusingly.

Raphael does not answer. After a few moments, he urges Aziraphale to sit, and hands him a cup of something steaming and smoky smelling. Oolong? Real? Aziraphale takes it, blinks at the Archangel, too confused to be grateful, but Raphael does not look at him. Aziraphale sips it, drinks it all down, feeling the warmth in his throat, pooling in his belly and then Raphael is standing over him again, pushing him down into a soft bed, covering him with blankets.

“Sleep,” he says. There are tears in the archangel’s eyes. Aziraphale does.

When he wakes, Michael is there, standing by the door and speaking quietly to Raphael. He tries to keep still, but they seem to sense that he’s awake, and Michael starts for him immediately, her path direct, but her movement unhurried. Still, she reaches him sooner than he would want. He tries to smile, struggles to sit up.

“Aziraphale,” she says. “We need to talk. Would you be able to come with me, do you think?”

He frowns. Why is she _asking_ him, rather than telling? “Raphael insists that you remain in your body,” she says. “For now. So we have to...make sure you let it recover. Are you up to a bit of a walk?”

“To my room?”

“If that’s all right. We need somewhere private,” she says. “We need to have a conversation.”

“Private?” Aziraphale repeats. If it’s just Michael, that might not be so bad. She’s kinder sometimes, when no one else is there.

“You, me, and Uriel,” she says. Aziraphale nods. “Possibly Gabriel.”

“Please, no,” Aziraphale says. Michael opens her mouth as if she’s going to protest, but she seems to catch Raphael’s eye, across the room, and when she looks back at Aziraphale, she nods.

“Very well. We’ll see if we might do it without him this time.”

Aziraphale stands, his legs feeling sore and wobbly, and Michael offers him her arm. Aziraphale stares. He does not take it. She shrugs, and he wonders if she’s offended. Outside the decontamination room, Gabriel is there. His eyes sweep over Aziraphale as they emerge, and he starts forward. Aziraphale freezes, takes an unconscious step back into the doorway.

“Gabriel,” Michael says. “You may speak with him later. I’m going to do this with Uriel. This is her area.”

“He’s _my_ direct report.”

“Gabriel,” Michael lowers her voice, but though Aziraphale keeps his eyes down, he can hear her perfectly. “This is not the time to argue territory. I am not in charge here, no, but it would behoove you to remember that I am technically your superior. If you object, speak with Raphael. You and Sandalphon have made this _his_ charge, because Aziraphale is badly hurt. And we need to keep moving forward.”

Gabriel looks annoyed, but he nods, and pushes past them, heading into the room they’ve just left. Michael takes Aziraphale’s arm and turns him, leading him down the hall toward his room. Uriel is inside already, behind a large sleek desk that had not been there before.

Michael waves him onto his couch and leans against Uriel’s desk. They watch him in silence.

“You said we needed to have a conversation,” Aziraphale offers, tentatively.

“Personally,” Michael says. “I think we should have _started_ with the conversation, instead of the beating. What in Heaven’s name did you _say_ to Gabriel before?”

“Oh. I—” Aziraphale has almost forgotten. Love. The Almighty’s love. He feels his face growing hot. “I’d rather not...repeat it. If that’s all right. Unless that’s what you need me to...talk about.”

“What we need,” Uriel says, “is for you to repeat to us what you said to _Giriale_. If you still believe that. We’re not here to rehash what happened with Gabriel.”

“Aziraphale, the thing is,” Michael says, “if you truly believe the demon Crowley _loved_ you, an angel, if you really believe that he _acted_ on that, that he’s _capable_ of that, then we may have an investigation on our hands to see whether there’s a much larger problem than your pride.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. And of course, it’s possible that after we investigate, we’ll find that your pride is still the issue. You understand that? Frankly, that would be easier for everyone to deal with, because if it’s _not_ pride, if it’s _true_ that a demon cared for you, however imperfectly, and if that means that he’s done things he might not otherwise have done, that he’s not serving Hell, then there’s no _balance_ there. Do you see that? And that means we need to communicate with the Adversary, have him removed from his post, put down, and replaced. And _then_ set about restoring your expectations properly. And your conception of your duties.”

“What?” Aziraphale feels his body tighten, the limbs painful and heavy, the chest constricted. “Put down?”

“Of course. A defective demon is put down.”

“ _Defective_ ,” he whispers. _Crowley. Defective._ He feels sick. He thinks of Sandalphon’s words to him. _Dead and gone. We are not endlessly patient._ It wasn’t _only_ defective demons. And it wasn’t only angels, either. Defective ones. Wastes of Creation. _Was_ there something wrong with them, with both of them? He’d sometimes wondered, on Earth, why it was possible for them, why they hadn’t ever really hated each other, or indeed even been repelled. But something isn’t right about what Michael has said. “You would communicate with _Below_?” he asks.

“If necessary,” Michael says. “Only if _strictly_ necessary.”

“He was always a wily adversary,” Aziraphale says, rather more mournfully than he’d intended. “Kept me on my toes, you see?” He thinks, perhaps, his words have lost some of their force, squeezed out, as they are, around tears.

“Aziraphale,” Michael says, patiently. “Which is it?”

“Both!” he shouts, then winces at his outburst. She and Uriel exchange glances.

“Let’s...talk this through,” Uriel says. “You’re adversaries. Then...what, exactly? How did you...come to love him? To believe that it was a shared feeling?” She waves a hand and there’s a sheaf of papers on the desk in front of her. “Your reports,” she says. She waves a hand again, and the stack is smaller. “Your records of your meetings with the demon,” she says. Michael turns and looks down at them.

“Is everything in here?”

“In a...manner of speaking,” Aziraphale says.

“We _expect_ that it is not complete,” Michael says. “What I am asking is whether it is true, what is here?”

“Of course. Hasn’t Raguel reviewed them?”

Michael nods, and Uriel frowns skeptically, but they each pick up a few reports, start flipping through.

“You might...turn to the fourteenth century,” Aziraphale says. “My last official assignment.”

“Ah,” Uriel holds up a report, and she and Michael pore together over it. Aziraphale remembers what he wrote: That the demon had been at the monastery. That he had arrived there unexpectedly, that Aziraphale had watched him, learned from the observation how to twist his own miracles into an occult shape to keep humans away from certain texts, certain temptations. He’d been sure it would get, if nothing else, a response, but it hadn’t been anything special, apparently, in their eyes.

“Oh,” Michael says, now. And she still doesn’t seem to care much about the curses. “And how...long was he there?”

“A few months.”

“And this is when he...tempted you into carnal relations? Or, I’m sorry, when you _fell in love_?”

“No. There was nothing like that then. But that’s when...we reached something of an accord.”

“An _accord_?”

“A...peace.” Aziraphale does not speak of the Arrangement. He does not know if it will be necessary, and it seems best to avoid it, to keep this personal, rather than mentioning the mingling of their professional responsibilities as well. He had had no idea that Hell would be involved with what was happening to him here, that anything would happen to Crowley as a result of his own folly, and now that he does, he can only attempt to correct that mistake before more than his own fate is determined. “A kind of friendship,” he adds.

“I see,” and it seems to have worked. Michael is a little calmer. “You admired his work.”

“It was effective,” Aziraphale said. “For different reasons, we had the same ends, you see? And I’d accomplished almost nothing the whole time I’d been there. But his methods worked. And I was...lonely and without guidance.”

“You were susceptible,” Uriel says.

“Go on,” Michael says.

“Well, in 1800,” Aziraphale resumes. “Crowley arrived again. The time for Gabriel to come had passed, and I thought I’d best get on with it, then, and stop waiting for him. He’d said he’d be there, you see, before that year, and then when that year arrived, and Gabriel did not, well. So I opened my bookshop. I’d wanted to for a while, but I’d been afraid to, since I’d expected Gabriel and thought it might all be for naught if he came and withdrew me. And Crowley arrived to...wish me well.”

The Archangels exchange glances.

“And then he didn’t _go_ ,” Aziraphale says, tears starting again. _Why hadn’t Crowley just gone?_ he thinks. Why had he taken him out for dinner and come back and drunk in the back room? Why had he stood there, by his side all day until Aziraphale felt he couldn’t do without him? Why had he come at all? None of this would be happening if he’d only stayed away. And now he might be destroyed. Crowley. His beautiful, perfect Crowley. Destroyed. When Aziraphale’s voice comes out, it’s almost a whisper. “I thought he would leave. But he didn’t.”

“Did you attempt to drive him out?”

“I enjoyed his presence,” Aziraphale says; he’s crying now. Uriel sets her jaw at the words, but she doesn’t look away. “And he came again and again.” Aziraphale sobs. “He took me to Paris. He…” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he is, because this shouldn’t be happening, and if anything happens to Crowley, he will never be able to live, he will wish Sandalphon had simply destroyed him before it came to that. If there is a problem, it is with him, not Crowley. “I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry.”

Michael is standing in front of him now. She holds out her hands and Aziraphale takes them.

“Good,” she says. “She is merciful, Aziraphale. Can you see how he tempted you? You were feeling abandoned. He knew that, Aziraphale. He could sense it, and he came then, when you needed something. He sensed your weakness and allowed you to come to rely on him.”

It isn’t at all what Aziraphale had meant. But he’s still sobbing, so he just nods. It’s what they need to hear, after all.

“He tempted me,” Aziraphale says, desperately. “So, you see...it was just…pride, after all. I was arrogant. Couldn’t see that I’d been wrong. So wrong.” It’s odd what happens when he says the words, the way they twist in his brain, slide into place, framing the memories. No, he doesn’t want this, not at all. But Crowley _had_ tempted him, technically, whether he was to blame for it or not. Whether it was temptation to _sin_ or not, Aziraphale cannot deny that he’d wanted the demon, had given in to that want. Crowley had known how lonely he was, how it hurt him to feel abandoned. Aziraphale had _told_ him. He had been so lonely he’d sought Crowley out to tell him not to approach, just for an excuse to speak to him. That was absolutely nonsensical, viewed through any lens other than neediness. And Crowley _would_ have known that, would have been able to sense it, that kind of emptiness and desperation. He remembers the demon’s glee when he’d asked him to teach him the curses, the way he’d grinned when Aziraphale had told him he’d been afraid to try to heal him, his admission that he’d come to him deliberately when he’d feared a second discorporation, that he’d known Aziraphale would help, even as Aziraphale had fretted and been afraid of hurting with his holiness. At the time, Aziraphale had laughed at the open wiliness in an accepting, eye-rolling manner, had been touched that Crowley would trust him when he was so vulnerable. But now, he wondered if it had been something else, something he should have drawn away from.

“Yes,” Uriel says. “It’s good that you see that now. Are you ready to repent?”

“I am _so sorry_ ,” Aziraphale gasps. And he really is, because suddenly, he feels he doesn’t understand anything at all. Not Crowley, not Heaven, not love, not himself or the fabric of his own mind and being. His body screams with pain and exhaustion, and _he is sorry_ : it’s who he is now, a being made, not of love, but of penitence and apology. There’s nothing else to him. He’s gasping with it, the realization, the feeling that his whole mental constitution has been changed, shaken, and he doesn’t know, when things have settled, what he will be now, what he already is, and hasn’t yet seen. But then, hasn’t it been that way a long time already, and he’d just refused to look?

They leave him. Aziraphale moans at the change he’s acknowledging now. The idea that they might destroy Crowley for his own folly occupies him for a long time, even though he thinks that threat is behind them now. He pulls himself into a painful ball on the couch, huddled there against the throbbing in his corporation, wishing he could lose consciousness to quiet his mind and the swirl of confusion and pain that has him rent to near senselessness.

Instead, after a while, he remembers Crowley’s hand in his on the Seine. Aziraphale’s soft, warm happiness at it. For a while it stills him, comforts him. But then he begins to think again. The way it hadn’t been enough for Crowley, whose hand had rubbed over Aziraphale’s then, almost like a challenge, but Aziraphale had held on, liking the sensation, the idea that Crowley wanted him to feel it. Was that pride? And when they’d sat down, Aziraphale had told him he cared for him, hadn’t he, or as good as?—he’d had said he missed the demon, and that was when Crowley had lain against him. It had felt so sweet and defenseless and natural. But had it been a test? Crowley probing the waters? And he’d fallen right into it, hadn’t he? He was the one who had caressed him, who had slid his hand into soft hair and stroked, sometimes right down to the scalp, feeling the hot skin at his fingertips. Crowley had even moaned suggestively, but Aziraphale had let it go, thinking it meant nothing because he hadn’t understood what it meant, even though it had affected him, stirred something in him. He remembered that he’d wanted to hear it again. He wants to hear it even now, back in his body as he is (sexless now, after Raphael’s decontamination, but still apparently capable of sense memory in a way he hadn’t been when decorporated). Crowley hadn’t meant anything, he’d told himself then. And the moaning hadn’t happened again. Crowley had simply closed his lovely eyes and slipped into sleep, as he did so easily. Aziraphale had felt little flashes of love from him, he remembered. That was why it hadn’t bothered him, the other odd feelings, the hand stroking, the moaning. It had all seemed to go together somehow. No, it hadn’t bothered him at all...he’d liked it, had been _greedy_ , hadn’t wanted it to end or Crowley to go. Had taken him back to the bookshop and covered him with a blanket so he’d stay and kissed him (he remembered how natural the action had felt, and how surprising) and gotten holy water to keep him safe so he wouldn’t have to go and Aziraphale could have _more_ still. Oh, God. Did they _know_ about the holy water? Crowley hadn’t asked him to do any of that. He still remembers how shocked Crowley had been at every step of it. That evening, all the touches, the good night kisses that had burst out of Aziraphale. That next morning, the way he’d offered to leave, to go away at what he’d thought was a show of power that Aziraphale had only meant as a way of protecting him, of keeping him close. The holy water had been egregious, really—but that wasn’t something Crowley had done, had asked for, or deliberately tempted Aziraphale to. But was it still the result of normal, unintentional temptation, or was it something Crowley had put there? What was the difference to Heaven? If an angel could be tempted, a true temptation, not whatever cruelties Hastur and whoever might have practiced, didn’t that mean that an angel could _decide_? And if he’d decided, unforced, then how could Crowley be blamed? Temptation wasn’t something outside of the person who felt it, after all. The sin of it didn’t belong to the tempter. He’d had to explain that to Crowley himself once. But if Crowley hadn’t been in earnest, hadn’t really wanted Aziraphale back, then that was different. It wasn’t love at all, just a trap. And if that was true, then Aziraphale had been a fool.

But then there had been all those beautiful years of working together, Aziraphale seeing up close the way Crowley twisted what he could of Hell’s directives into acts that did the least harm, the way Aziraphale did with some of the more questionable things Heaven had assigned him. He wasn’t evil, Aziraphale had known that for a long time, but that closeness, that unity of purpose, had let him relax into it—there were no horrible, dark secrets about his friend that he did not know; there was no hidden side to his personality, lurking in wait to leap out and destroy. And there were still, always, the flashes of love, sweet and strong. And sometimes, when no one was looking, one of their hands found the other’s, sometimes, when they were alone, they sat together, close, leaning against each other. And some nights, in the bookshop, Crowley lay down to sleep, and Aziraphale covered him with his own tartan blankets, kissed his cheek or forehead, pressed a hand to his hair, and watched over him.

But then Oscar, and Crowley’s ridiculous physical vanity had soared to new heights, and he’d suddenly been angry and snarling and jealous, and Aziraphale guilty and apologetic and pliant, though he’d known he shouldn’t be. Because Crowley was manipulating him? Because he knew how Aziraphale would respond? And then Crowley had been _there_ , when Aziraphale was at the height of it, his desire, his dawning understanding. That night at the club. And Crowley had _known_ that, hadn’t he, how Aziraphale was feeling? And he’d made sure he was _there_ , just at the moment when it would be most...tempting. Just when Aziraphale was _susceptible_.

But Aziraphale had _asked_ him to be there. Aziraphale was feeling it _because_ he had agreed, _because_ he was there for him. Wasn’t he? After all, it had only ever been Crowley Aziraphale had felt those feelings for.

But, no, Crowley had been in another room, and then suddenly it was time for the silly kiss, and there he was, his mouth opening under Aziraphale’s, and it hadn’t felt silly at all.

And at home, the bookshop, Crowley had seemed so anguished, as if his own desire tormented him, but he could feel that Aziraphale lusted after him, couldn’t he? And he’d known Aziraphale well enough to know Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to suffer for feeling it back? So Crowley had _told_ him how he...thought of him when he had carnal knowledge of himself. And Aziraphale had fallen right into that trap, too, hadn’t he? He’d opened his own mouth and asked for sin.

But Aziraphale had so _wanted_ to touch him. He’d wanted it a long time by then without really understanding what kind of touch it was he desired. He still wanted it now, the closeness of it. The touch of that beautiful being, that burned only with its preciousness. And he hadn’t seen the harm in it, not essentially. He still doesn’t. He loves (loved?) Crowley. The touching, the kissing, the sex, felt like something that grew from the love, not something ugly. How could something that grew naturally from such a beautiful feeling be ugly, especially when it made them both feel so fulfilled, so close to each other, and so joyful?

Crowley had kissed him everywhere, had touched him reverently. He’d always been gentle, careful with his touches, even though his desire had surely been real. It couldn’t have been an act, just something put on to get Aziraphale to feel less responsible, less guilty for acting on his own? No, no—Aziraphale remembers the way his body changed when he gave himself over to it, his eyes, his tongue reverting to their snaky form, the way that at first he’d been so afraid Aziraphale wouldn’t like it, would be repulsed at the reminder of what he was. But of course, Aziraphale had never forgotten that in the first place, had never put it out of his mind. He had even delighted in it because it meant their love was something special, unique. If Crowley had been using him, wouldn’t he have kept that in check, wouldn’t he have perhaps not even worried about it so much?

Or had that fear been an act, too? Was it worse still that Aziraphale had sought out that serpent tongue with his fingers, had kissed and licked that sigil, unthreatened, had even thrilled at his own vulnerability at letting himself be pinned, naked and drowsy beneath his supposed adversary? Had even asked for more vulnerability—wanting his wings, his essence, laid bare to a demon’s touch? It had only been Crowley he’d desired. Ever. And now he comes back to that one. In Rome, Aziraphale had sat in the baths countless times. Humans tended to be on good behavior around him, but some were impervious, and he’d seen some things. And he hadn’t felt any similar stirrings in himself until he’d found Crowley beside him, beautiful and naked in the same water, and suddenly he’d been almost a stranger to himself. Had Crowley…

Aziraphale and Crowley had differences of opinion on the use of their powers on human minds. Aziraphale was not opposed to the very occasional softening of certain thoughts or worries, the lifting of certain emotions, with an angelic touch. If, for example, he was obligated to dull someone’s awareness, he knew how to do it subtly, and waken them softly. If he soothed someone to sleep, he knew how to place sweet dreams there to take away their anguish so they might rest.

Crowley, as a demon, did not do these things. Nor did he undertake their demonic counterpart. It was his personal belief, he’d told Aziraphale, that minds ought to be left largely alone. If he ever dulled an awareness, he did so almost crudely, usually placing a person into a full trance, from which they awakened only with a quite accurate sense of having missed something, or if they were simply a particularly dull individual, confused, but without the sense of having had anything happen at all. Aziraphale could not imagine that Crowley would manipulate his mind, not only because of this preference (after all, if Crowley had done all these other things, he might have lied about that), but because he lacked the _skill_ , having never practiced it enough to do it fluidly. And surely if he couldn’t manipulate a human mind with seamless dexterity, he’d be unable to do the same to an angelic one? A trance, or even a push to some specific behavior, would hardly be sufficient to manipulate Aziraphale into falling in love with him, trusting him for thousands of years, and Aziraphale would have noticed, would have felt anything as crude as Crowley’s mental work if it were used on him.

Wouldn’t he?

He does not know how long he turns the ideas over and over in his head, his stomach twisting as his mind does, the growl in his stomach reminding him of crepes, of Crowley, the press of the blanket against his skin reminding him of the robes they’d made for each other, the blankets they’d wrapped around the two of them in the new bed Crowley had made them in Aziraphale’s tiny flat once they’d realized they needed it.

_Everything_ reminds him of Crowley, of their life on Earth. That life...it was all he had, all he’d been. It was what he’d been made for, life there. And Crowley had been a part of that. The biggest part. Whatever it meant.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t notice it right away, but the door doesn’t disappear behind the Archangels when they leave. When he finally decides to sit, to have some tea and a book and try to recalibrate rather than worry and weep, the door is there, right in front of him. He sets his tea down, pushes away the Jane Austen, and stands on his shaky, aching legs. He walks slowly across the wine-colored carpet and puts his hand on the cold brass doorknob. He turns, pulls.

It opens. Aziraphale steps through.

“Hello,” he calls, wary. If this is some sort of oversight, he doesn’t want to be seen to take advantage. For a wild moment, he remembers the scale model of Earth in the regimental hall, for monitoring mostly, but also for easy travel in a pinch. He realizes that if he could get there, he could get back to Earth, find Crowley, and…

And what? They’d find him immediately. Find both of them. Likely find Crowley holding him, attempting to comfort him, and then Crowley would be destroyed.

Or what if Crowley didn’t? What if he found Crowley, and the demon laughed at what had become of him? His shaky, bruised body, his shriveling gaze and constant apologies. At the very idea that he might welcome Aziraphale back. What if Crowley pushed him away, repulsed? Crowley wouldn’t. Would he?

Either way, Aziraphale realized, he would rather be destroyed.

_Do you repent?_ Uriel had asked. And he’d been sorry. Truly, he had. But he still loves Crowley, he realizes. It won’t go away. It’s still there, deep in him, like a part of him. And _oh, God, it is. It never will go, will it?_ It’ll be there with him, tormenting him until he’s gone, essence destroyed and returned to the ether so something better can be made of it.

And he’s standing there, weeping, in the hall, outside his room, next to that horrible nothingness where they had said Raguel was. Is he still there? Listening? Watching? Other angels are walking, further down, curious, furtive glances shot his way, but they’re too distant, really, to see anything. Aziraphale starts off, the way he’d gone with Giriale, toward the dining hall. He really is more than a bit peckish.

It’s a long walk, alone. The other angels see him, and he wilts under it. He’s not used to this, censure from everyone, this kind of open disapproval. They all know, he remembers. They all know that he and a demon had shared carnal knowledge of each other’s bodies. His face is hot. He’s hot all over.

There’s nothing for it.

He tries to smile at some of them, when they look. He tries to look penitent, deferent, appeasing.

They all look away. Some of them widen their eyes or lift their chins first, as if he’d been prideful to engage at all. When he gets there, he takes a seat at a small table in the back where no one is sitting. He keeps his eyes down. His hands shake as he tries to eat.

The angels eating at the tables near him finish and leave, and no one takes their seats.

The third time he goes, Giriale is at his table. He starts to go to a different one, instead. He doesn’t feel angry at her—that isn’t why. He just assumes he isn’t wanted. But she stands, waves him to her, calls his name, even in the crowded hall.

His skin burns with shame as they look, even as he’s grateful, so grateful he can hardly stand, can hardly walk.

She had known before, he reminds himself, approaching her. Yes, she had told them what he’d said about Crowley. He had blamed her, at first, had thought it was her fault Crowley’s life had been in danger. But he’d been the one to tell her the truth. Or what he’d thought was the truth. She had only done what she thought she had to. She had only done what he would have, if he’d been in her position. If he’d been a better angel. Less of a waste of Creation. The words Sandalphon had uttered crash into him like a blow in his still-fragile body. He totters slightly, all eyes on him, they can all see it, the corruption on him, in him. The susceptibility. He forces himself forward, forces himself to smile.

“Aziraphale!” Giriale says. “Are you feeling better?”

She stands, pulls out his chair for him. He looks at her suspiciously, but he takes it, reprimanding himself for the suspicion. This isn’t like him, this indiscriminate distrust, but he doesn’t know how to apply trust properly anymore, it seems. Perhaps he never had.

“I talked to Gabriel. He said you were penitent, that you had suffered and your body was weak.”

“Thank you. I’m...a bit better now. Raphael healed me, mostly. But I suppose I’ll have to do the rest. When I can.”

“In your time. I hope you understand that I acted for your _benefit_ ,” Giriale says. “And look at you now, out on your own. That comes of penitence. She is merciful.”

Angels at the next table stand to leave, look over at Aziraphale, open and dour.

“I feel as if everyone can hear us,” Aziraphale says quietly. Giriale looks around.

“Then let’s go somewhere else?” she says. Her hand closes over his. The warmth goes straight to Aziraphale’s heart. He nods, eats quickly so they can leave.

This time, in the garden, they walk. Aziraphale finds that he just wants to move, to feel his body _work_. No one else is here, and suddenly, in the pleasant company, without the critical eyes on him, he feels so tired. They make several loops, reaching different parts of the garden with each one; this time past the waterfall, that time, near the cliffs’ edge, out over nothingness. They talk. Aziraphale tells her about the recovery. He does not tell her about the beating that had made it a necessity. She seems to know, and he is somehow ashamed of it.

“I didn’t know what they were doing to you,” Giriale says, finally.

“I don’t blame you,” Aziraphale assures her. “You did what you thought was best.”

Giriale nods. “Sometimes it can take a lot for us to see the error of our ways. Be grateful that you have.”

Aziraphale bristles at this, but there is a certain truth in it, he realizes. He will not see Crowley again. He will not have the answers to the questions that torment him. He knows that now. And it’s best, then, that he distance himself from that time in his life, from that feeling. Especially if holding on to it will hurt the demon, letting go of his love is an act of love, itself.

He remembers again, with a start, the way he’d tried to get closer to the demon, and Crowley had held him off, had seemed distraught, had distracted him, changed the subject. Anything, it seemed, to keep Aziraphale from seeing his own soul, the truth of him. Keeping himself hidden, keeping Aziraphale wanting, desiring— _tempted_.

Oh. Perhaps that was an answer in itself.

“She is merciful,” he says, in answer to Giriale. He feels his heart breaking, as if it’s happening somewhere else, somewhere far away. Perhaps on Earth, wherever Crowley has taken it.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you,” Giriale says, softly. “Should we sit down?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’d prefer to...keep walking, if we can?”

“Of course. As you like.”

_Anything you like, angel. Anything you want. Anywhere you want to go._ The memories, a thousand of them, crowd in, the voice suddenly there in his ears, warm and gentle and accepting, like he couldn’t ever ask for anything he couldn’t have. He can almost feel Crowley’s hot breath, see his delicate, sharp features, shaping themselves around the words, his eager, indulgent expression. Aziraphale gasps. He wants to scream. He presses a hand to his mouth instead. No. He will not do this here, not again, not in front of her. He swallows it down, gulping, breathing hard.

“Aziraphale?” her hand strokes his back.

“Please go on, my dear,” he pauses in his walk, pulls down his waistcoat, dislodging her touch. Smiles.

Giriale takes his hand. Aziraphale pulls his away gently. It isn’t personal. It’s just that he can’t take any more reminders. He has never walked hand in hand with anyone but Crowley. And he can’t think of Crowley anymore.

“Well, I’m taking on the Earth assignment,” she says. “They’re sending me down. To...replace you. I’ve actually already been down a bit. Just to get the lay of things. There’s a war on, you know. So they need someone. Your demon, well, Hell...it’s a bit out of control without anyone from our side.”

Aziraphale’s heart hammers. What has Crowley done? He wouldn’t...not intentionally, not really...would he? Giriale’s eyes are searching him, and he must not be moving too much, reacting too much, because she smiles again, gently, and goes on.

“It’s very...different there, isn’t it? I’m going to start somewhere called Palestine, I think. Or Israel? Or, no, not that yet. I don’t know. It’s supposed to be holy. Have you ever been there?”

Aziraphale barely hears her. He wants to fall to his knees on the cold stone path and wail. He wants to scream and beg, run to Gabriel and try anything he can think of to get him to send Aziraphale back to Earth.

But he’s already done that. All of it. They’d never send him back now, warped and useless as he has proven to be. No matter what he does.

So he bites back his questions about how long it has been now. It doesn’t matter anyway.

Instead, he smiles. “Yes, I...Good luck,” he says. “I wish you all the best. I...hope you’ll excuse me. I...find myself suddenly exhausted, I’m afraid.”

* * *

Awareness dawns on Crowley slowly. There’s a warm weight on him, his wings, he realizes. There’s sun coming through the skylight. He’d woken up once, to the sound of distant explosions. Nineteen forty-something, according to the newspaper he reluctantly summoned. He’d found a stack of memos and newsletters from Hell by his bed and wanted nothing so much as to ignore them and return to sleep. Instead, he’d picked them up, gone downstairs and read enough of them to understand that there were two separate wars—the one he’d started wasn’t still going—but he was being given credit for this one too. Because the git who’d started it was mad about the first one. _Truly inspired stuff,_ Satan had added in a personal note.

_Oh, fuck, fuck, what’s happening? What is it?_ he’d thought. Outside, he heard someone scream. Crowley isn’t the best at protective magic, at healing, at soothing. He’s really not even supposed to do much of it all, except for himself or as strategically needed. So he’d just pushed out the protections on the bookshop, extended them a little farther.

Then he’d found some scotch and drunk it, sobbing quietly until he was too drunk to keep quiet, then he’d thrashed around and screamed. How was Aziraphale not back yet? And how had Crowley done _this_? He’d been _trying_ to fuck up; he hadn’t even done what they’d asked, and he’d given a word of encouragement to a human, tried to discourage him from whatever dark thing it was he was planning. And even that had somehow gone wrong. This is what he is without Aziraphale, a curse of a thing, burned to ash and irreparable. He was nothing, he was done with it all. He wished he could die, wished it could all be over. He’d thought of the holy water Aziraphale had gotten for him. He thought of Aziraphale finding him, dissolved; he imagined the angel grieving, not understanding what Crowley had done, why he’d deserved to die. No. No. He’d gone back to sleep.

Now, it’s quiet except for some unfamiliar noises that don’t sound like the traffic of horses and carriages. People’s voices, horn blasts. No one is shrieking. There are no explosions. He sits up on the couch in his dressing gown, putting his wings away so they don’t knock into everything. There’s one memo. He goes to the window, peers out. There are horseless carriages crowding the narrow road in front of the shop. And oh, so that’s what they’re wearing these days? Men in baggy blue trousers and white shoes and flannel? He’s going to have some trouble making that work. He’d look like he was drowning in that kind of material. Maybe a bit more research is in order? Some reading on fashion, maybe? He can probably get a date from that, too. His chest clenches.

Aziraphale is not back. He rips open the memo. It’s got a date on it, not long after he went back to sleep.

_Heaven has sent down a new angel. Another Principality. Not sure if you broke the first one or he just didn’t want to come back, but S says to tell you good job either way. (Only took you six millenia.) —Beelzebub, Prince of Hell_

Crowley gasps. He’s tried to protect himself all this time and it’s done him no good at all. He can’t sleep it away, can’t drink it away. Aziraphale is gone. _He’s gone. Oh, fuck, he’s really gone._ He can’t move, can’t stir at all. He doesn’t want any damned scotch, but the bottle is where he’d left it. He looks around the shop, the light pouring in from the skylight, Aziraphale’s desk still home to a book he’d lettered in the scriptorium, the angel’s tea set sitting primly in the corner. _Oh, God._

After a few hours of feeling completely immobile, Crowley stands. His heartbeat hurts, the movement pushing against something that shouldn’t exist. Him, that’s what it is, the thing that shouldn’t exist. But Crowley can’t think of that. He can’t sleep any longer. It doesn’t help, it won’t help—there’s nothing to wait for anymore. Only more waking up. And knowing.

Crowley thumbs through the fashion magazine he has somehow summoned, but literally nothing there makes any sense. It’s 1998, it says. The photos are bright and colorful, the paper oddly slick. A skinny girl draped over a muscular man scowls at him from the cover, her eyes blackened with kohl. The images don’t seem to penetrate into his understanding. Finally he throws it across the room, shattering the tea set and then he panics again, howling and screaming. He repairs the tea set, cradles the cups in his hands, all but apologizing to them and caressing them. _Aziraphale could come back,_ he thinks, knowing that it’s not true, that he’ll never see him again. God, so that’s how it’s going to be? He’s just crazy now, is that it? Stroking tea cups and pretending? He miracles himself a flannel shirt and some of the white shoes and horrible trousers with pale scratchy, stiff material that swallow his legs. No, he can’t do that. He snaps his fingers, makes it all black except for the shirt. Those have to be plaid, it seems, so he leaves it alone. At least until he figures out fashion better. He wrangles his hair into a ponytail without a miracle, without combing it first. It’s long and unfamiliar. He’s never let it get like this, but that’s a problem to deal with later. A pair of sunglasses, black, seems to be the thing, a little silver O on the side, for some reason. OK, fine. If that’s the look.

He sits there a long time. Then he leaves, locks the bookshop behind him and walks over to Mayfair. It’s different than he left it. Flashier.

He tugs at his loose shirt, looking across the street at a man in a sleek black suit, the drape of the pants, the shoulders of the coat fitting him in a way that manages not to make him look like a beanpole, even though his build isn’t too different from Crowley’s. The man’s eyes travel over Crowley and he looks uncertain, then outright disdainful. He lifts a wrist, looks down at something there (A wristwatch? Are men doing _that,_ then?), and then he walks away. Crowley starts after him, embarrassed, but desperate for a closer look at the fabric of his shirt. There’s a loud honk, and a huge automobile surging toward him. _Fuck,_ what is all of this shit? Crowley miracles himself out of the road, but the man is already gone. He looks down at his shirt; he’s still wringing it in his hands. The pattern of the shirt is Aziraphale’s tartan. His mouth falls open, and he barely even notices that his legs have given way. He cannot do this.

He sits on the side of the road and screams and keens until a police officer comes along and starts to ask him to leave. The police officer loses his voice and goes home. So does Crowley.

* * *

After a few months, he returns to Mayfair, dressed properly. Takes a flat there without raising any eyebrows. Spends some time in various museums, the botanical gardens. He does not go to restaurants. He stays out of St. James Park. Out of Soho. He learns how to drive a car, how to use a computer, a mobile phone, a tablet. He learns how to ignore the ache in his chest.

He buys some plants. Learns how to talk to them. Experiments with tight trousers, leather, denim. Cuts off a few feet of his hair. Invents the man-bun.

He writes some reports for head office. Reality TV? Chat shows? Social media? _Great Recession?_ All him. (All the humans, really, but they don’t have to know that.)

He’s still not ready for it when it comes. He’s nervous enough standing there in front of them, Hastur and Ligur, who he hasn’t seen since the mine. And, aside from the things he’s falsely taken credit for, he hasn’t done much more than a few mobile tower outages, a couple of train delays, and one or two traffic incidents for almost the whole time he’s been up.

“What’s this about?” he says, tipping his head back, trying to look unaffected, even though it’s dark in this cemetery.

“Flash bastard,” Ligur mumbles. Crowley opens his mouth to explain, yet again, how he’s inspiring envy and lust and greed with his whole image. But Hastur rolls his eyes and cuts him off.

“Got a job for you,” he says. He hands Crowley a dark wicker basket.

It almost breaks him open. “What?” he says. “Already?”

“Sign here.” Crowley does, his finger smarting, but he barely notices it against the hammering of his heart.

Crowley feels the soft earth beneath his feet give way as he shifts his feet. All of this gone. The world. All of it. Everything.

Aziraphale.

He’s not coming back. Crowley knows that.

But he might. Crowley supposes he’d always considered that it was a possibility, however distant.

And if there’s no world to come back to?

Aziraphale wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want him to _do_ this. What if he finds out, what if this is what brings him back? To stop this?

Of course that’s ridiculous. He’ll do what Heaven says. And there’s another angel here, supposedly, to thwart anything they don’t want done. And he doesn’t see them anywhere now.

But Aziraphale had loved the world. Maybe more even than Crowley had. For Crowley it had been a respite, somewhere that hadn’t cast him out, somewhere that wasn’t Hell. Somewhere he could have Aziraphale. But Aziraphale had really loved it for what it was. The people themselves, even. Not just the clever things they thought up like books and plumbing and electricity and the newer stuff, the automobiles and telephones. (What would Aziraphale think of them?) What if…?

He’s being ridiculous. God, Satan, he knows he is. Hastur and Ligur can’t wait to get away from him, so the instructions move into him as he drives through to lower Tadfield, along the narrow, winding country lanes. At the hospital, he stays with the child, does exactly what he’s asked and more. Because what if he can somehow _change_ things? What if the fact that this child is technically human is something he can _use_?

He memorizes their names (Harriet Dowling, Warlock Dowling), studies their faces.

He waits until Harriet and her Secret Service detail leave with the child. Watches them buckle him into his car seat in the ridiculous black SUV the Americans seem so partial to. He watches them drive off. And he decides.

* * *

Aziraphale’s penitence is what has earned him the freedom, Uriel explains. But nothing, it seems, will earn him a restored place in Heaven. He still eats alone, still receives only disdain and scorn and disinterest from the others. They give him nothing useful to do, and when he asks for it, they sigh and exchange glances.

Finally, they station him with Raphael, but there is nothing to do there. Raphael has his own work, mostly, and sometimes he asks Aziraphale questions about human medicine, but they are rare, and mostly Aziraphale sits quietly and reads, sipping tea. Raphael is not talkative, does not respond encouragingly to Aziraphale’s attempts at friendly overtures.

His body is better now. Thinner than he would like, he can tell, and once, when Gabriel comes for the hugs, which he has resumed now that Giriale is gone and Aziraphale’s body is no longer bruised, he asks Gabriel if he might look at himself in a mirror. Gabriel obliges, and Aziraphale stares at himself in open horror for a moment before smiling and nodding, thanking him. Gabriel nods pointedly, like Aziraphale’s thinness, the circles under his eyes, have been something he’s wanted him to see all along.

“You’ll get better,” Raphael says later, when Aziraphale asks him about it. “Your injuries are almost completely healed. Just a little while longer, and you can decorporate. Then your body will be able to really rest.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Decorporate?”

“Yes. Gabriel wants you to be uncorporate for…” Raphael waves his hands. “Ah, well. No matter.”

“For what, if I may ask?”

“You may not,” Raphael says. But there’s no bite, or even sternness in his voice.

And a little while longer passes, and Raphael helps him to separate from the body. Aziraphale does so mournfully, watching it lying there alone, thin, and frail.

“It will get better,” Raphael says, whenever he catches him glancing at it. But whenever Aziraphale looks, it’s the same.

“Will it be killed?” he asks, finally.

Raphael gapes at him.

“Aziraphale,” he says, patiently. “That would be heinous. I am a healer. A nurturer. You have my word that I will not kill your body.”

“Let die, then? Or someone else might do it? Sandalphon, perhaps?”

Raphael shakes his head. “That’s not how it’s done,” he says.

Aziraphale opens his mouth to ask—what, exactly? He’s not sure. But it doesn’t matter. Raphael is doing something else, on the other side of the room now, pretending not to be aware that Aziraphale is still standing there, gaping, unformed questions still in his mouth.

* * *

Then it’s very quiet. No one is on Aziraphale’s hall at all. And Raphael isn’t there when he reports for work. Gabriel doesn’t find him, which is, at least, a relief.

But there’s no one at all.

Aziraphale wanders. In most of his wanderings, his exploration, he’s been very careful not to go near the regimental chamber, knows they’ll probably suspect him of trying to return to Earth if he does, doesn’t want to draw any more scrutiny than he already does. But he’s uncorporate again now, per Gabriel’s request, so he couldn’t very well return to Earth without a body, so he approaches, and as he comes nearer to it, he sees a flock of angels wearing battle kilts.

He moves closer, peers into the chamber after them. Michael stands at the far end, her blade in hand.

_Oh, no,_ he thinks. _Oh, no, no, no._ His time in Heaven has been terrible, slow, but nothing could have provided him with enough time to prepare for this. He steps backward, and the motion seems to catch Michael’s eye.

She’s been kind to him, comparatively. But now her eyes on his narrow, and as her blade flashes, Aziraphale remembers that it was she who smote Lucifer. That it was Michael, who with the first ever instance of smiting, of vengeance, created Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: references to execution; references to abuse and violence; explicit sexual references; sexual shame; gaslighting (possibly unintentional, depending on your read); psychological/emotional manipulation; anxious rumination; social isolation; nervous breakdown/panic attack; negative self-talk; suicidal ideation.


	11. The Happy Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley does his best to stop the world from ending, and in the process learns something about grace and his own worth.
> 
> Beta read by [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
> 
> —From “The Happy Prince” by Oscar Wilde
> 
> * * *
> 
> “He looks just like an angel,” said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
> 
> “How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.”
> 
> —From “The Happy Prince” by Oscar Wilde
> 
> * * *
> 
> cw: references to insanity, grief, and not passing (though it's not traumatic in this context). 
> 
> Note: In this story, Crowley uses he/him pronouns internally while presenting as Ashtoreth, a woman, who uses she/her pronouns. He views this as just playing another role, and has no attachment to any particular gender; he's just gotten used to thinking of himself a certain way.

It’s three years before Crowley sees the Dowlings again. And he’s ready for this. He’s read books on child care, enrolled in a course on early child psychology and learned a lot about the blank slate theory (which is bollocks, of course. Crowley hasn’t been on Earth for six thousand years not to know, both empirically and experientially that human nature exists), and it’s just enough to get him to hope. Even so, he watches a few movies about nannying. Some tawdry thing called Au Pair, from the 1990s, something called Nanny McPhee, which he’d liked better before the nanny got all beautiful, and something everyone he’d mentioned the word “nanny” to had said, _Mary Poppins._ So that was what this came down to: _Mary Poppins_. Crowley sighs. It has not escaped him that these nannies are all women, which seems a bit unfair, but honestly Crowley isn’t here to rock the boat, not this time, so he’ll go with it. And Crowley has no issue with presenting as female, though he hasn’t done it for thousands of years. But this is a significant departure from his usual aesthetic. Mary Poppins isn’t exactly...the _kind_ of woman Crowley would have chosen to be, unprompted. Even so, that’s probably for the best. The more of a departure from himself, the better. Crowley brushes his hair into soft waves, then pulls it back, away from his face, and pinned it there. He snaps his fingers several times before he finds the right look: A long, black dress. A little red scarf, pinned in place. Ankle boots. And, oh, Satan, are those fishnets? Absolutely not. One more snap. There, now the tights have a subtle pattern of black lace. Crowley runs his fingers up his legs and sighs. Perfect. He practices his speaking voice, Scottish and homey. Just enough different from his normal voice to make him feel like it’s a role. Crowley is good at playing roles. It’s all he’s done since waking up. All he’d done for years before that, except for that hundred years before he’d slept. But he doesn’t think of that. He can’t.

What he needs is to put people at ease so he can do his job. Or, rather, _not_ his job. But, a job. The job. So he can breathe. So he can believe, for a little longer, that there may be something about this place worth wanting to stay alive and in it. The name is always there, always just kissing the edge of his awareness. He does not let himself think it, even as it pulls at him, burns him, if he forgets for a moment and lets his guard down, the face, the voice, the feeling, the sense memory flooding him. (There have been weeks Crowley didn’t get out of bed, weeks that passed like days, when he’d lost himself to it.)

At the wheel of his vintage Bentley, which he quite thinks completes the effect, he does a sedate 95 mph on the winding country roads. The Dowling estate, where he has an interview, is an hour away if he does the speed limit, and he’s due there in twenty minutes. It doesn’t matter if the other candidates simply will not show up for their interviews, because Crowley is ready for this. He has been waiting, preparing, for the whole three years of Warlock Dowling’s life.

* * *

The family, Crowley is realizing, is different than he’d expected them to be. Crowley has read about Americans. Seen them on TV. Met a few. He hasn’t been there since the 1860s, since he and—nope, that’s not a thing he can think about.

But the family isn’t like a lot of what he sees. Even though Thaddeus Dowling had begun his ambassadorship to the UK under a somewhat dubious American government (but then, Crowley has never encountered a political system that wasn’t dubious), Crowley doesn’t detect any of the boorish, closed-mindedness he’d have expected from anyone in his household. He’s never heard them say anything off or hateful. And even though he’s started to suspect that Harriet Dowling realizes that perhaps he hasn’t always lived as a woman, she’s never said anything about it to him, never seemed to think it has anything to do with his ability to perform his duties as Warlock’s nanny. He wonders at the irony of it. They’d probably have hired a male nanny after all. Though perhaps not one in snakeskin shoes and tight trousers and the chains Crowley has taken to wearing when he’s not here.

He begins to relax a little. Just a little.

Warlock is a sweet child. It’s a strange thing to discover about the Antichrist. He’s naturally curious, interested in everything. He doesn’t like to see sadness in other people. He likes to talk, to argue, even, and he goes through a phase of provoking his mother and Crowley, but when he gets a little older, even that ebbs. One day he tells Crowley not to squash a bug and Crowley stares at him in surprise before agreeing. He hadn’t been about to. He had, in fact, told Warlock some weeks ago that he had to always be kind to all living things, learn to respect them all, from the great whale to the lowest, crawling thing. He hadn’t thought Warlock was listening. He hugs Warlock then. _It’s working,_ he thinks. Warlock, surprised, hugs him back tightly, laughing.

“I knew you wouldn’t, Nanny Ash,” he says. “You’re always so nice.”

Crowley gulps furiously. He doesn’t bother to deny it. There’s no point, after all, if he’s trying to raise the boy to goodness and niceness himself. And it’s the truth, he _has_ been nice. Scrupulously, deliberately, painstakingly so. But all the same. He wasn’t supposed to benefit from it. Not on a personal level. It was a role. It was about Warlock. It wasn’t about him, wasn’t supposed to resurrect his stupid, crumbled heart, and sometimes he feels like it might. Right now, his eyes have started burning.

But Warlock is looking at him, his smile reaching up and out of him, his eyes bright. If Crowley doesn’t get it together, that smile will be gone. So Crowley instinctively reaches out and ruffles his curls, not sure when this became more than an act.

“Can I have an ice cream?” Warlock asks. His accent is a weird thing. Hovering somewhere between English and American and probably fake Scottish. Sometimes Crowley wonders what it will be like for him when he starts school. There is nowhere he’ll fit.

He gives Warlock an ice cream. The next morning, Saturday, he returns to London to perform temptations and feel like himself. On Saturday afternoons, he opens the bookshop. It’s the only time he lets himself think about Aziraphale, instead of trying to channel him, trying to think of what the angel would do before he acts. In the bookshop, he can remember, he can mourn. He can pretend. Sometimes, in the bookshop, he believes.

But then he goes home to his flat.

* * *

In all the years she must have been there, it only happens once: He sees Aziraphale’s replacement. He’s standing at the counter in the empty bookshop, when she walks up, outside. She’s there, just standing there, looking, and then she’s not. He doesn’t _know_ for sure that it’s her, just that she’s a Principality—he remembers her face from Eden, feels her angelic presence, so similar to Aziraphale’s and yet not. She looks nothing like Aziraphale. Tall, thin, brown-skinned, dark-haired. She’s dressed in khaki and white and brown. She sees him through the door. Nods at him, even. He wonders if she knows this is Aziraphale’s shop. Wonders if she knows about him and Aziraphale. If they’ve sent her to do something about it, about Crowley. And then he wonders if she knows something about Aziraphale, if he’s OK. He actually thinks of asking her. But it’s a terrible idea. He doesn’t know what it would do to Aziraphale if he did. Or what it might mean for himself if she thought he really cared about Aziraphale and meant her no harm, either. So he narrows his eyes and doesn’t approach, and neither does she. He stays alert when he locks up that night, goes upstairs to sleep, instead of taking the risk of leading her to his apartment in Mayfair, just in case. The protections, after all, are still in place around the bookshop. But nothing happens. And he never sees her again.

Well, nothing except: that’s when it starts. The nightmares. The dreams: Aziraphale’s broken body. Aziraphale’s gentle hands, his soft lips. The way it had felt to have to listen to Hastur talk when he knew Aziraphale needed him. The feel of him in Crowley’s arms. The deadened, guarded look he’d given Crowley that night, the last night they’d made love, before Crowley had come to his senses: “As we’ve grown closer, have you found that am I not as you thought I would be?” Crowley jerks awake and lies there, fighting hard against tears and abjection. He had felt, that night, that it was the worst thing Aziraphale could have said. Worse almost than if he’d done what Crowley was expecting and ended it, because Crowley, in his own fear, had _made_ Aziraphale feel that. And he hadn’t ever explained himself. Not really. Aziraphale had trusted him when he’d said that wasn’t it. He’d waited. He’d indulged Crowley, accepting what Crowley could give, and Crowley had been _about_ to explain. He’d just needed to work it out, how to phrase things, what to say, and...then…

 _He’ll never know,_ Crowley thinks, rolling over, pulling the sheets around him. _He’ll never know that I was going to tell him; never know what I would have said._ Crowley lets out a whimper. _Oh, God._ Did Aziraphale hate him? If he did, it was all right. Crowley would understand.

It’s insane. He knows it is. He’s going mad. He stands up and goes into the bathroom, finding the soaps and oils they’d used together. He knows it’s a terrible idea, but he smells them. It’s not _Aziraphale_ ’s smell, exactly, but it catapults him back, and for a long time, he stands there, focusing on the feel of the jar cradled in his hands, the way it’s cold and smooth and heavy, and old, so old it’s only his protections on the place that have preserved it. He wants to dash it on the floor. But then he’d smell it all night, miracle or no. Instead he replaces the stopper, hands shaking, and sets it on the shelf. He lets himself say his name, whisper it. “ _Aziraphale_.” Just once. Now out loud. “Aziraphale.” And then he can’t stop it any more; he says it over and over as he sinks to his knees and weeps.

* * *

The dreams don’t stop when he goes to his flat the next day.

They don’t stop when he returns to the estate.

It’s not every night. And after a while, it doesn’t even hurt as much. He almost looks forward to them, if not the waking. But even that isn’t as bad as it could be. There are at least three people in the house who are reliably pleased to see him, and one of them is Warlock, his actual charge. He’s nine now, and has channeled all of his potential into a form Crowley would never have imagined. The others are Harriet, of course, and Anathema Device, all but a stranger—a young woman who has just started as one of Thaddeus’s staff. Crowley doesn’t see much of the ambassador, or his staff, but many of them spend their workdays on the first floor in Thaddeus’s offices, and Crowley sees her taking her lunch break in the gardens when he takes Warlock out to play. She’s young, new, and staying with the Dowlings for a few weeks while she finds her own place. Crowley doesn’t know why he smiles when he spots her looking at him, but he does, and she introduces herself and stands with him a while, watching Crowley’s curly-haired charge running after a butterfly.

“His name’s Warlock, right?” she says, finally. They are the first words she has spoken to him.

“It is, lass,” Ashtoreth says.

“What will he do when he catches it?” she says.

“Ah, but he won’t,” Ashtoreth says, smiling smugly. In the yard, Warlock comes to a stop and the butterfly circles him, lands on his nose, and he giggles, holds out his hand for it. Anathema frowns as the butterfly lands on his finger as if at his command.

“Wow,” she says.

“He’s a remarkable child,” Ashtoreth says.

“That’s not remarkable; that’s unreal,” Anathema says. And to Crowley’s very great surprise, she runs across the yard toward the child. It’s only from a distance that Crowley takes in her whole appearance and realizes that she’s dressed like an Edwardian schoolmarm. Odd. Eccentric. That’s when he decides he likes her.

“How are you doing that?” she says to the child, her voice carrying across the yard to where Crowley is standing. There are more butterflies now, gathering around the two of them, but Anathema’s eyes are trained on Warlock.

Crowley watches them for a while. Anathema eventually seems to give up her campaign of understanding and lets the butterflies settle on her as well. The sight makes Crowley twitch, but he knows humans find these insects heartwarming for some reason. When Anathema comes striding across the lawn, her expression open and delighted, Crowley tries not to look proud. Warlock’s progress is promising indeed.

After that, Ash and Anathema exchange smiles and pleasantries; Crowley almost lets himself believe in kindredness between them.

* * *

For his tenth birthday, the Antichrist wants to visit sick children on a cancer ward at a hospital. Crowley watches as he smiles and talks to the children. He gives them most of the toys he’s been given as gifts. There are exactly enough toys for the children, and they all feel well enough to play. Warlock is the weirdest child Crowley has ever met, but they like him, and no one questions his accent. Crowley thinks about next year. Because there’s only one more year of the world. And he’s not expected to spend it here. And next year, comes the Hellhound.

“Is this a phase, do you think?” Harriet Dowling says, a few days later, when letters from the children on the ward start to come in for Warlock. “I mean, he’s always been a sweet child, but…”

“None sweeter,” Ashtoreth says. Harriet frowns.

“You’re a wonder,” she says, finally. “Listen, Ash, I…”

“I know,” Ashtoreth says. And he’s surprised at the very real sadness he feels. His employment was only ever supposed to last until Warlock was ten. “Did you have an end date in mind?”

“Oh,” Harriet says. “I was going to ask if you wouldn’t...stay another year?” she finishes this last sheepishly, her voice dropping to a low whisper, even as the pitch rises at the end, hopefully.

“Oh,” Crowley says, forgetting to be Ash. Then, “Oh, yess, my dear.” OK, there was no reason a Scottish woman couldn’t hiss a little. He smiles, and to his relief, Harriet doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. She pulls him into a hug.

“You are a wonder,” she repeats.

“Warlock is the wonder,” Ashtoreth says.

“He is that,” Harriet says. Crowley can feel her eyes on him. He can tell that he wonders how he’s done it—Warlock had, after all, been a normal, selfish, and boisterous child when he’d started. But Ashtoreth only smiles. Yes, this is something Crowley has done. But of course he hasn’t touched the mind of the _Antichrist_ with something as meager and untested as Crowley’s demonic powers of mind control. After all, if it even worked, it’d probably tip off his father right away and be a one-way ticket back to Hell and oblivion. Oh, no. Demon or no, this is pure, human-style elbow grease. Which means, oddly enough, that Crowley gets to feel good about it. It is, he has come to understand, a kind of grace. And it is his own.

* * *

In the mornings, when Warlock is with his tutor, a nervous, but sweet young man called Newt (the only member of the household or staff to seem suitably terrified of Ashtoreth), Crowley often walks in the gardens. The late summer morning when it happens is no different. It is where he saw Anathema for the first time, and, though by no means the last time, he does not see her quite as often these days. She has her own apartment in the city and apparently does much of her work at the embassy, but there are still times when she’s there. The entire first floor is offices for Thaddeus and his staff. And there have been rumors about Anathema and the tutor. Crowley can’t see it, but whatever. Opposites and all that. Who is he to talk? _But it’s best not to think of that._

He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. _What are you doing?_ he thinks. _This can’t continue. Sure, you’ll be here until the last, now. No need to find another disguise to get Warlock to Megiddo. But does that really even matter? Are you just prolonging your misery? Would it, maybe, be better to just let it come, the end?_ If Crowley went to battle, he’d likely be killed. He could be wily and cunning, but he was no warrior. That is part of why he’s _here_ , after all. If he groomed the Antichrist for power and destruction, he’d have a place of honor in Hell, wouldn’t be expected to do the dirty work any longer. So if he wanted to put an end to it for himself, all he had to do was just not go back. Let himself die in the battle. Maybe he’d even get to see Aziraphale again. _He’s_ a warrior. Heaven might send him back when it’s time to fight. Crowley laughed at himself. _Aziraphale._ He’d have his flaming sword back, probably give Crowley the smiting he deserved. Might even kill him. He wouldn’t want Crowley now. It wouldn’t be some beautiful, tragic reunion. Aziraphale would see…but that was just it, wasn’t it? When Aziraphale had discorporated, Crowley had just been starting to understand, to believe that Aziraphale _did_ see, that Aziraphale understood what he was, and wanted him, loved him, anyway. That it was really _Crowley_ he loved. Just as he was. That it didn’t _matter_ whether Crowley deserved it, because it was Aziraphale’s to give. And wasn’t that, too, grace? Even if it didn’t last, it had happened. And it had taken Warlock and all of this to remind Crowley of that feeling. He had been too stupid, too preoccupied with his own failings, almost the whole time they’d had together, to see it for what it was and appreciate it. And now, he could never let Aziraphale see that he understood; he would never have the chance to show him how much it meant to him, how much _he_ meant. He had _hurt_ Aziraphale. And that’s leaving aside whatever Heaven has done to him, if they’ve found out about the two of them. Crowley presses his hand to his heart and crouches by the edge of the pond, unable to stand any longer. Oh, no. He’s never let his grief and panic get this far, not outside of the bookshop or his flat. He’s never lost control like this when he’s out, not since that first day he’d woken up in London after his long nap. This is not all right. These walks are meant to clear his head, not to reduce him to this. He can do better than this. He has to. He has watched tutorials on grief, on stress management. He’d had to, so he could function. He closes his eyes and begins the process of grounding himself in sensation.

His fingers are wrapped loosely around one temple of his glasses where they rest against his lap. The smooth fabric of his skirt presses into the pinky of his right hand. His face is wet with tears. His chest feels hollow. He is shaking. His thighs and flanks burn from the crouching. His ankles are being stretched from the crouch; they will scream with the pain of it when he stands.

And then there’s something light but insistent pressing into his back, and he yelps, eyes flying open as he flails to standing, the glasses flying out of his hand and into the mud about a foot away. In front of him stands Anathema, hand still hovering harmlessly in front of her. He is not wearing his glasses. He presses his eyes closed, not sure if she has seen.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right? You’re crying. Should I get someone?”

He opens his eyes again, and she’s standing in front of him, holding them out. There’s mud on her jacket, where she’s wiped the glasses. She looks at him dead-on, holds his gaze. A little quiver goes through her.

“What…?” she begins.

“Thank you,” Crowley says. He takes the glasses, replaces them. They stand there, staring at each other. For a moment, Crowley thinks of wiping the memory of his eyes from her, but for some reason, he does not. He hates touching their minds, and Anathema had not flinched. People are not so superstitious these days. Perhaps…

But her eyes are slowly widening, and she takes a little step back, instinctive. Crowley opens his mouth, hating it, wanting to reassure her. Not here, people here aren’t supposed to be afraid of him like this. Newt doesn’t count; he’s afraid of everyone.

“I should go,” Anathema says. “I’m sorry I...interrupted you.” She turns and darts off, grabbing her bag from a bench—had she been sitting there?—and jogs away. Crowley sees right away that she’s left a book behind. But somehow he doubts that shouting or running after her right now would be wise.

He picks it up. _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter._ Hadn’t Aziraphale...Hadn’t Crowley heard of that (never mind where)? His chest clenches again at the idea of a book of prophecy. He tucks it under his arm, takes a few steadying breaths, and completes his loop around the garden.

That night, he cracks the book open, and turns to the end. After all, that’s where they are now. And he could use all the spoilers he can get.

* * *

He has a nightmare again that night, jars himself to waking with the word _angel_ on his lips. He sits with it a moment. Then he picks up the book and flips to the end. iPhone in hand, he turns each page, photographing them as he goes. There. It doesn’t make any sense to him, but maybe if he just looks at it a little more it’ll help? Aziraphale had said most of these books were bollocks. Is this one of the bollocksy ones? He can’t remember, but either way, now he can give the witchy girl her book back. Maybe it will win him some favor back. Maybe she won’t say anything. What would she even say? And who would believe her anyway, if she _did_ somehow know the truth? Everyone loves him here. He...well, unfortunately, he likes them quite a lot, too.

* * *

“Crowley?”

It’s a few weeks later, and Crowley jolts awake. He _hadn’t_ been having a nightmare. At least, not if you can classify a dream that leaves you shivering and in tears as anything other than a nightmare. But in this one, Aziraphale had been lying against him, trailing his tongue against his neck and calling him beautiful. So, it had been pleasant while it lasted. But nothing about it would have woken him. It isn’t that. It’s a feeling, a sensation of something ethereal, yet familiar, a presence in the room, and the voice...He jolts out of his sleepiness with a shock, no no no. The voice, it had been real, it had been real, Crowley is sure of it.

“Angel?” he says to an empty room. But it had been real. He had _felt_ him. He hadn’t felt him for more than a hundred years, and this had been _him_. It had. “Aziraphale! Aziraphale?” His voice is too loud. He’ll wake them.

He waits. It’s happened. He’s gone mad. The knowledge does not deter him.

“Aziraphale, angel. Please,” he begs, “don’t go. Don’t leave.”

But there is no one there.

* * *

Warlock is reading a book on the saints when Crowley gets the missive in the mail. Instructions for Meggiddo. He crumples it and shoves it in his pocket for later. It’s the boy’s eleventh birthday, and his hands are shaking and sweaty.

“Ash,” says Harriet. “We were hoping you’d come with us...for some reason, the whole family’s presence has been requested at the next meeting in Israel, even Warlock, and Tad is dead set on doing everything as requested for this one. We’re understandably, I think, a little nervous about bringing him there, but it would really set our minds at ease to know you had charge of him when we can’t be there. I know, technically, your contract with us is up the day after tomorrow, but—”

“Yes,” Ashtoreth says. “Of course, dear.”

“Oh, good. And then...of course. You’re a lifesaver.”

The dog comes that night, after the magic show Warlock has requested to raise money for ClimateNOW (Many of the children from the cancer ward, mysteriously in remission, had attended). Warlock, still in his smart white suit, names it Angel.

“Why on earth—?” some mixture of Ashtoreth and Crowley says, when Harriet and Warlock bring the dog into the sitting room where he is studying his social media accounts. He looks down at the dog. It’s a small thing, fluffy and gold in color. It’s eyes are an odd, murky blue. It bumps insistently into his leg until he pets it.

“Like _your_ angel, nanny,” Warlock says. “Your friend who was an angel.” Harriet’s mouth opens and closes.

“What’s this?” she says. Crowley winks at her, hoping to play this off.

“How did you know I had a friend who was an angel?” Ashtoreth says, trying to sound teasing.

“I heard you,” Warlock says. “Sometimes at night, when everyone is sleeping, I don’t. And I went past your room and I heard you. You said you missed him. I think he’s the one you talk about. The one who likes to read and doesn’t like to share. And likes to eat too many sweets. And protected you from bullies.”

Harriet is staring at him, a soft expression on her face, like she sees something new in Ashtoreth, like she understands. Crowley doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Ash...I didn’t know. Does it bother you? Should I ask him to change the name?”

“I didn’t mean—” Warlock begins, starting to look worried.

“No, child,” Ashtoreth says. “I won’t be here much longer anyway. Enjoy your angel.”

Warlock hugs him. Harriet does too.

* * *

And then they’re in the jeep. And Crowley sees them. The four of them, waiting. He doesn’t want to, but there’s no avoiding it. So, when the driver seems confused, he raises his hand and points. “There they are,” he says.

Warlock’s jaw has clenched. The closer they’ve gotten, the more unfamiliar he seems, his body tight and angry. The little dog he’d insisted on bringing, sounding uncharacteristically spoiled and entitled as he’d done so, is nuzzled comfortably between him and Crowley. The dog makes Crowley uneasy. It seems to like Crowley almost as much as it does Warlock, which is, well, fucked up. The thing is from Hell. Hell, other than Satan himself, hates Crowley. And even the Satan part is likely to change after today. Unless...Warlock flinches at his mother’s touch when she reaches out to smooth his hair.

“Don’t,” Warlock snarls. His eyes flash red, and Harriet blinks.

Had it all been for nothing? Crowley hopes Hell will pull him down before he has to see it. Or that an angel will strike him down. He can’t think of Aziraphale. Not yet. When it’s all over, he can carve out his corner of Hell, if Hell is still there. Then he can grieve properly, give himself over to it, finally. There will be nothing else left. His heart pounds. These people, the people in the jeep, the people in the whole caravan—they’ll be the first casualties. These people, who trust him.

“Ash?” says Harriet. The dog crawls onto his lap. OK, that is fucked up.

“It’s almost like he knows you,” Harriet says. “Like he knows he was named after your friend.”

“He does,” Warlock says, scornfully. “He’s smart.”

The jeep comes to a stop in the middle of the desert. Harriet frowns.

“This is really weird,” she says, looking out the window. “God, Tad’s outdone himself this time.”

Warlock scowls at her, pushing open the door, ignoring it when both Ashtoreth and Harriet call after him. The dog looks mournfully at Crowley, then jumps down, out of the jeep, yipping.

Crowley does not bother to get out. He’s done his part. Now he can only watch and wait. And frankly, it’s a lot easier not to watch at all.


	12. Such Extraordinary Importance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Crowley is raising the Antichrist, Aziraphale makes an important decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am afraid that good people do a great deal of harm in this world. Certainly the greatest harm they do is that they make badness of such extraordinary importance. —from _Lady Windermere’s Fan_ , by Oscar Wilde
> 
> * * *
> 
> Guys, Aziraphale is not the dog. Sorry for any disappointment.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.
> 
> * * *
> 
> cw in the end notes.

It’s only a little while—a few days, perhaps?—before they summon Aziraphale. It’s the five of them, now. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, and Raphael, all along one side of the table. There is only one other chair, on the opposite side from them. Aziraphale takes it.

“Raphael tells us that your body is doing well,” Michael begins. Raphael gives Aziraphale a thin, tired smile. Aziraphale does not meet his eyes.

“It looks...different,” Aziraphale manages. Sandalphon smirks at Gabriel.

“Lost the gut,” Gabriel says, smiling back. He turns to Aziraphale. “Aziraphale, we have been very patient with you. But we find ourselves in a very different position than we had expected to be in. We need to know right now, if we can count on you. We’re glad to see you repent, but this is no longer about you. We can’t afford to let you dither. It’s about our bottom line.”

“I don’t understand. I have repented?” Aziraphale hates the question in his voice, hates the way his face scrunches around his narrowed eyes. He’s afraid. He’s sorry. What more can he do? He’s afraid to ask it, but he wants to.

“You’ve repented, to an extent,” Uriel says. “We need you to see the breadth of your sins before you can repent for all of them.”

“And then we need you to atone,” Gabriel says.

Sandalphon cracks his knuckles, making Aziraphale feel sick. _Surely that’s too far,_ he thinks, and searches their faces, but there is nothing of surprise or shock in anyone’s face at Sandalphon’s unseemly alacrity. Gabriel looks satisfied, Uriel patient, Michael alert and expectant. Sandalphon—well, Aziraphale won’t look at him. And Raphael just looks tired and sad, as always.

“What must I do?”

“I would like you to fight,” Michael says. “As you know, I command Heaven’s army. And I think this is fitting. You will atone to Heaven for your sins against us.”

“ _Against you?_ ”

“Your body doesn’t belong to you, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “And yet you used it in the most profane ways. You allowed it to be defiled.”

“Defiled it,” Sandalphon says.

Aziraphale is shocked to find that he does not want to argue this point. He is shocked to find that there is, in fact, a dawning awareness coming over him. That yes, that is what he has done.

“You will join us for training,” Michael says.

“May I just...what exactly, are we fighting?” There are assumptions he might make. Has made, in fact. But there’s still hope.

Michael and Gabriel exchange glances. Sandalphon grins. It’s Uriel who answers. “Armageddon, Aziraphale,” she says.

“And there’s no chance of...averting this?”

“Oh, Aziraphale,” Uriel says. “I thought we were past this sort of thinking. This is the Great Plan. We don’t question the Great Plan.”

“Your demon has certainly embraced his role,” Gabriel says. “He’s the one who delivered the child. The _Antichrist_ , you know.”

“He _has_ been busy, Aziraphale,” Michael says.

“Two World Wars,” Gabriel resumes. “One hundred and fifteen million deaths.”

“Genocide. Starvation.”

“You wouldn’t believe the experiments he got the humans to do on each other in the name of _science_.”

“Please,” Aziraphale says.

“ _Your_ demon, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says. “But he _loved_ you, right? And you _loved_ him? The _thing, the monster_ that would do this?”

“Stop. I didn’t...I didn’t know about any of this. Giriale told me about the wars, but I didn’t know about all of the people. Millions of people.” Aziraphale looks around at them all with tears in his eyes. Only Michael looks sorry at all, but her expression is really closer to curious pity, and it seems directed at him, not the lost lives.

“Did you ever stop to think there might be any number of things you didn’t know?” Gabriel snaps.

There’s a silence then. Aziraphale’s mind is racing. Crowley had never killed people if it wasn’t necessary, not directly. There had been a few incidents back before they knew each other, back before either of them really knew what they were doing, when the demon had deliberately incited anger that, in turn led to other, unintended things, and Aziraphale had decided not to judge him for it. But _this_?

“Are you sure he’s responsible?” Aziraphale says. There’s so much doubt in him now, he realizes. There’s nothing like the unthinking trust he’d felt for Crowley on Earth.

“Oh, good Lord, Aziraphale!” Gabriel explodes. Michael lets her face fall into her hands, and for a moment it seems that she will weep with exasperation.

“I don’t mean that I trust him not to be!” Aziraphale says, sincerely. “Just...wondering what the level of involvement really is there. It’s not always as clear as that, I think you’ll find.”

“He’s a demon,” Gabriel says. “That’s the level. All right? Hell gave him a job and he did it, and those are the results. Clear as a bell, _I_ find. Look, you need to move on. You need to accept that you are incapable of getting clarity on this issue, and just put it out of your mind. We don’t have time for this anymore. Let’s get it straight: You don’t know love when you feel it. It’s here, in Heaven, with God and the Host. It wasn’t there on Earth with a _demon_. If that doesn’t tally with what you feel, then what you feel is _wrong_. You’re just _wrong_ , Aziraphale. I don’t understand how you can just be so _wrong_ about everything.”

“Gabriel—” Michael begins.

“We don’t have time for this! It’s ridiculous that I even have to say it.”

“You don’t—I understand,” Aziraphale tries.

“Do you? Do you know, Aziraphale, I was reading some of your Earth books, and even the _humans_ understand that you can’t always tell love from lust. If someone is really wicked, it might seem like they love you, when all they want is to use you.”

“That’s not what I meant when I said I felt his love.”

“Yeah, well, I think we already established that _you_ can’t _feel love_. So.”

“I don’t think it’s the same thing,” Aziraphale says. “It’s not what I meant.”

“Maybe—” Raphael begins. He pauses, as if unsure if he’ll be allowed to speak. But no one stops him. “Maybe that’s not quite the point, Aziraphale.”

They’re all quiet for a moment.

“Anyway, it _is_ the same thing, sunshine,” Gabriel says. “You were just down there too long.”

“Will you join the fight with us, Aziraphale?” Michael says. “Against Hell?”

“Or is it too much for you to take up arms against your fucking demon?”

“Gabriel,” Uriel begins, “It’s important that he knows he has a choice.”

“But it’s a choice between loyalty and treason,” Michael says calmly. “If you don’t fight, Aziraphale, we will be forced to execute you.”

Aziraphale feels small, very small, too small to exist. He wants nothing more than obscurity, to escape notice. Barring that, he would accept simple privacy. He is moving without meaning to, betraying his anxiety and doubt in his effort to make himself smaller. They’re all looking at him like they can see it, Michael’s eyes narrowing, Raphael leaning forward, as if studying a specimen that isn’t responding the way it ought to.

“We don’t have all day,” Gabriel says. “This shouldn’t even be a question.”

“I’ll fight,” Aziraphale says. He says it because, when he pictures the Earth—the grass and trees and flowers, the people and their books and restaurants and beautiful buildings, and all of the _love_ undergirding their achievements—he doesn’t want to die. He can’t picture it without picturing himself there, among them, like he had been—an angel daring to learn those kinds of love, carving out a little pocket of Earth for himself, smiling and holding a demon’s forbidden hand. He pictures the Earth, spinning in space. He pictures the Earth, shrunk to scale and situated in the regimental chamber, where he will train to destroy it.

* * *

They let him back into his body for training. Michael says he will be more effective this way, especially without his sword. His body, she says, will be the weapon. (She does not, miraculously, react to his having given away the flaming sword with anything other than an eye roll and a sigh.) He trains beside the others, but they keep him in a corner, where he cannot look out the window to see the Earth, and he isn’t too close to the scale model. They stand in rows and wield their weapons in an orderly fashion, which seems unlikely to be particularly useful against the chaos of Hell, but Aziraphale does not question it.

His body is a bit weaker than he’s used to, which is odd because he hadn’t ever really thought of himself as _strong_ , exactly. But he grows tired easily, and craves sleep when he is inside it, but he’s not allowed to remain in it for sleep. Instead, when training is complete, Raphael meets him outside the regimental chamber and leads him back to decontamination, where he helps him to separate, before letting him go.

“Why is my body still kept here?” Aziraphale says. “Is it still considered contaminated?”

“Of course not,” Raphael says. “We removed the demonic traces as soon as Raguel identified them. It’s just that the others wouldn’t want to seek help if they had to be near it. So we keep it here.”

“So you...you _know_ it’s not contaminated, but you...let them _think_ it is? Will I _ever_ be allowed to fully rejoin the Host?”

“Aziraphale,” Raphael says, pleadingly. “This isn’t about you. Others shouldn’t have to suffer for what you’ve done.”

That’s right. Aziraphale knows it is, but something about it seems wrong. After all, hasn’t he tried? He cannot excise the love from his heart, cannot excise the memory of his happiness on Earth, or the way it felt to become estranged from the Host in the first place. But hasn’t he shown repentance? Hasn’t he done his best? And the other angels won’t even look at him.

He tries again to socialize, offers friendly smiles, tries to keep the sadness, the desperation, the sense of unworthiness out of his face when he does. Those things are offputting, he knows. Even if they’re all he is anymore, he needs someone to believe something else, to see something else, before he can make it true. That’s the definition of the Host, after all. Unity.

The other angels do react to his overtures: They flinch. They look down and away. They sneer. They smirk or giggle. When Gabriel takes over the training to discuss strategy against the opposition, one of the angels sitting near him gestures to the dirty, dripping demon pictured on the slide and asks Aziraphale what it was like to lie down with a creature like that, if Aziraphale could smell the brimstone on him, if Aziraphale was afraid, or if the demon was afraid of him. The angel has a long silver braid, and wide gray eyes with friendly-looking crow’s feet. Aziraphale cannot work out whether there is malice there, or whether they really think the questions are reasonable and want an answer. The other angels nearby look at him too. Aziraphale shakes so badly he can’t hear, and spends the rest of the session weeping, which they all pretend not to see. Aziraphale begs Raphael to let him stay in his body that night so that he might sleep. But Raphael says he has his orders.

After a few training sessions, Michael, Gabriel, and Sandalphon call him before the Host.

“Some of you have asked why Aziraphale is permitted to train with you,” Gabriel begins. “As his supervisor, it’s my responsibility to clarify his status. He has been temporarily kept separate from the Host, but his body is clean—or, well, _decontaminated_ , now, and Aziraphale is still a Principality. He is guilty not of disloyalty, but of stupidity, weakness, and pride.”

“Lust,” calls someone. Aziraphale feels his face burn. He shakes where he stands, dizzy, suddenly.

“Not really,” Gabriel says. “I can see how it looks that way, but, believe it or not, that wasn’t really the issue.”

There is laughter. “Aziraphale,” Gabriel goes on, “was just _very_ lonely down there on Earth, and he got a bit _confused_.”

More laughter.

“So gross,” someone says.

Aziraphale’s vision clouds, his face is wet.

Gabriel claps Aziraphale on the shoulder. Aziraphale flinches away. There is laughter, gasps—whether at the touch or Aziraphale’s reaction, he is not sure. He is breathing so fast now, he cannot think. Their eyes are all trained on him. He cannot even count the faces. This is how it was when Lucifer fell, he thinks. Archangels, Michael in command, the whole of the Host looking on in fearful, hungry curiosity. This time, interrupted at battle training, all those who fight are holding their weapons.

“Anyway,” Gabriel says. “You’re all safe with Aziraphale. He’s not a threat.”

“Not even to demons,” Sandalphon says. “ _Historically_ , at least.”

More laughter. The sounds hurt Aziraphale. They feel loud in a way that makes him flinch, and glance about for cover. He thinks of a squirrel, a rabbit. Is that how they see him? Fidgety and small?

“But he’s doing something about that, by training with us,” Michael says. “He wants to atone. He wants the whole Host to see all the hard work he’s doing to show us how sorry he is to have dishonored Heaven.”

“Aziraphale, kneel,” Gabriel says.

“What?” The word comes out without Aziraphale having the chance to think about it. Gabriel’s command has barely broken the surface of his panicked mind. There simply isn’t time to think before he responds. Gabriel’s answer is to push on his shoulder, to press down on it, and Aziraphale, weak already, and no match for the strength of an Archangel (even a bureaucratic one like Gabriel), sinks to his knees.

“Hold out your hands,” Gabriel says.

Aziraphale does so, frowning up at him. So he doesn’t see Sandalphon, stepping forward at his left, only that Gabriel has nodded at something there, and then there’s a cherrywood rod coming down on his fingers, it glitters gold, as it does so, the sigils on it iridescent—they burn when they touch his skin. He flinches away, but Gabriel orders him back up, and Gabriel, without touching him, holds him there, keeps his hands in place. Sandalphon hits him again. Again. Again.

When it’s done, the Host is quiet. Michael approaches him, touches his arms to help him up.

“We want you all to be aware,” Gabriel is saying. “That Aziraphale is being punished, that his punishment _is_ a public matter, in as far as he is still technically a member of the Host, but please do not think, because you haven’t seen anything, that we are not addressing this matter with him; that we are trusting blindly in his reform. Michael has mercifully excused him from the rest of this training session. But he will be back with you next time. And we hope that you can find it in your hearts to allow him to fight beside you, and begin to regain his place as we all work toward a glorious victory. We’re all on the same side. Someday, down the line, Aziraphale’s transgression will be all but forgotten.”

Aziraphale lets Michael walk him to the side of the room, lets Raphael miracle them away and back to decontamination.

Raphael embraces him briefly—he had not realized that he was weeping—then lies him down on a cot and rubs his hands in salve, wrapping them with bandages. His touch is careful, gentle, and even though Aziraphale’s hands are broken and the skin on them flayed, nothing Raphael does adds to the pain. Aziraphale tries not to enjoy the caring touches. He does not like Raphael, knows Raphael is not his friend, but he has never hurt Aziraphale. Sometimes, when no one sees, he is kind.

“You’ll stay in your body tonight,” Raphael says, stroking Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale does not much like it that _Raphael_ is touching his hair, but it’s nice to have it touched, to be soothed this way. “Your hands will be all right. Sleep now.”

It’s not a command for Aziraphale so much as a statement about what will take place. Aziraphale sleeps.

It’s a painful sleep—the hands ache from whatever those sigils had been, and the salve, though it speeds up the healing, does nothing to help with the pain of it. Worse, though, is the anxiety, which the sleep does not strip away or bury beneath dreams. Aziraphale can still see their eyes on him, their laughter, their hunger for novelty, for punishment. He thinks of Crowley. Crowley had never been cruel. Whatever had happened between them, the demon hadn’t been cruel. Whether it was real or not, Aziraphale had _felt_ safe with him. Had felt, even, treasured. Though perhaps— _probably—_ that was stupid. It was wrong that Aziraphale longed for him now, for the comfort of his touch, the cadence of his laugh, the feeling that here was someone precious, who was his, and who prized him in return. If he had used Aziraphale, it didn’t matter. Aziraphale had enjoyed it, had needed it. He would allow it again, would beg for it, even, if he ever had the privilege, even if he _knew_ the demon didn’t love him. What did it matter, if it felt like he did? He had felt no love at all in his time here. He had thought his loneliness on Earth was extreme, but this is worse. This is worse, a thousandfold. To stand before them, mocked and humiliated. He had felt no love from them, only fear for his very existence in a human, primal way he had not known was possible for an angel. Crowley, Aziraphale remembers, had once been beaten and nearly discorporated by an entire village. But even then—Crowley hadn’t been in danger of _dying_. And Aziraphale had wept for him, and for the cruelty.

But maybe there was something more frightening than cruelty: indifference.

“Raphael,” he says, on waking.

The Archangel approaches. He takes Aziraphale’s hands and begins to unwrap them.

“Raphael,” Aziraphale tries again. “May I...speak with Michael? Just Michael. A-alone?”

Raphael removes the bandage from Aziraphale’s right hand, palpating it lightly.

“Flex, please,” he says. Aziraphale wiggles his fingers.

“Good.” He bends his head down and unwraps the other hand, takes it between his and palpates. Aziraphale sighs. When Raphael lets go, he wiggles his hand impatiently and the Archangel nods. “Good,” he says again.

Aziraphale frowns. He starts to ask the question again, but Raphael says. “Let’s get you out of your body, and I’ll see if she’s available.”

* * *

Michael does not hide her exasperation. “Aziraphale?” she greets him.

“Oh, yes. Ah, I wondered. Please. Forgive me my presumptuousness, but I really must ask. I must...remind you. People will be killed in Armageddon. Billions of souls. Some of them really lovely people. All for this War. I have to ask if there’s really nothing that can be done to subvert this. Nothing at all?”

Michael narrows her eyes. “Aziraphale. We have done nothing but prepare for this since the dawn of Creation. From the moment Lucifer Fell, it was inevitable. This _is_ the Great Plan. You understand that, don’t you? You know what the Great Plan is?”

“I do.”

“So, then...are you telling me you won’t fight?”

Aziraphale knows he will not. He had never really considered it, had only wanted to buy himself more time, but now…

“Of course not. I’ll fight. It’s just...it feels different to me, I think, having lived there. Among the humans.”

“Aziraphale,” Michael says. “I don’t want to hear this kind of talk from you again. This is your last warning. Cowardice will not be tolerated on top of your other transgressions. You will fight. Or we’re done here. Gabriel was quite right—we don’t have time for this.”

* * *

Aziraphale waits for Raphael to come back, but he does not. Finally, he gets to his feet and starts down the hall to his room. The regimental chamber is open, unsecured. No one is about. Briefly, Aziraphale’s heart pounds with possibility. If he could get back into his body unaided—but no. He doesn’t know how to do it, isn’t even sure that it’s possible. And if he’s caught, there’s no deniability. Instead he enters the regimental chamber and walks along the walls for a bit, peering down at the Earth, at the new buildings and the people in their odd fashions, and the motorcars, trying to ignore his awareness of the scale model, the way he feels tense with anticipation, as if there were something to anticipate.

What would happen if he went back without a body? Is such a thing even possible? How does the scale model work?

He approaches it, watches it spin slowly. He reaches out with a finger, jabs at it.

He can hear voices, chattering, easy laughter. A language he does not know. Slovenian, perhaps? He lingers, not seeing anything, only hearing those voices. Nothing becomes any clearer. He pulls back.

This time he goes for England. This time, he lets feeling guide him.

He knows what he’s done only when it’s too late. He’s somehow homed in on Crowley as if the demon is a beacon. He’s _there_ , wherever Aziraphale is. It’s a _certainty_. And there’s something else, flashes...love, an oddly possessive, pure love, not like anything he’s ever felt before. Like that of a child, but...stronger? He feels Crowley, and he feels that, and they seem separate. Not Crowley’s love, no it’s nothing like that. Yes, there are other people near. But no one is speaking. It’s quiet. Aziraphale wants to call out to him, but he’s afraid. What if Crowley doesn’t want to talk to him? What if he’s frightened? Or angry? Or upset?

Aziraphale hesitates. “Crowley?” he says, his voice quiet, meek. Twice more, louder. In case he’s sleeping—but not too loud—what if Heaven can hear him? Aziraphale waits. No, there’s no answer. Well, that’s done then. That’s done. Aziraphale makes himself keep moving. He finds the one with the love, but somehow he knows better than to speak to them. No, it’s probably best to leave now, before Crowley finds him, says something Aziraphale doesn’t want to hear. Because what could he say that would comfort now? _I missed you, I love you, let’s save the world together?_ None of that would matter now. And it was just as likely that Crowley had come to regret their time together, or had never truly cared for him to begin with.

Still, he’d seemed kind. Gentle. Loving. Aziraphale has tried not to think of it, but now it pours into him as he withdraws from the Earth. He looks around the regimental chamber, still deserted, and returns, unseen, to his room. There, he lies himself on his couch and presses his face into the back of it. He had held Crowley, sometimes, pressed his face into him like this. Had smelled his comforting smell, something spicy and smoky like ginger and teakwood. Even if what happened between them had been sincere for the demon, Aziraphale knows that he had been wrong to allow it. He should have sent Crowley away in 1800, or in 1343, or when he’d suggested the Arrangement, or, or in Rome. Aziraphale’s chest heaves, but he doesn’t cry. No, he should have sent him away in Eden. Leaving aside the whole temptation in the Garden thing (which Aziraphale hadn’t spotted until it was too late) he hadn’t had to shelter the serpent under his wing, just because he’d smiled and been charming. Of course he had, he was a tempter! God, he really was an idiot. If he could have just stopped it there, nothing would have happened. Would it?

But the thought only leaves him bereft. Never to have known Crowley? Aziraphale would never have known _himself_. Never would have known the world. He can’t regret it. Not really. Not when it’s the bright spot in Aziraphale’s dim, lonely life.

Aziraphale knows he will not fight. It would be all but useless if he did, weaponless, and that is surely what Heaven intends. Ought he to throw himself in front of a nameless demon’s plunging spear? Use his body to protect another angel from a stream of hellfire? It had been his original thought, but now, it seems too passive, too much like letting Heaven destroy innocents in the name of something ineffable. And, in Aziraphale’s experience, ineffable things are often misunderstood.

The honest thing would be to confess to Michael that he will not fight.

But that’s as useless as the other thing, when he’s starting to understand something about Heaven, something important. There is no hope for him here.

There is really only one thing he could do—try to return to Earth and help who he can. But then—the only way he’ll get back is to join the battle. And that would be too late. Perhaps, he thinks, he might see Crowley again before he dies. Just for a moment. Even a glimpse. It would be enough. He would accept even the scornful gaze of those eyes if it meant seeing him again, even if it meant learning if it really had all been a deception. If he really was the fool they said he was, or if some part of it had been real for the demon. Because it had been real for him. He loved Crowley, or what he thought was Crowley. He had felt like he was loved. And nothing can take that away from him.

* * *

When it happens, Aziraphale doesn’t think. He doesn’t decide not to think, he just _doesn’t_.

He hears them whispering as they file into the hall at the sound of the horn to wait for Michael. Gabriel is not there, which means that Sandalphon is not there. Uriel and Raphael do not have any battle responsibilities, so of course they are not present here. Raphael will probably have come to look for Aziraphale, to put him into his body, but Aziraphale will not be there. He does not have much time. Aziraphale spots Giriale at the edge of the room, wielding a spear.

He does not stop, and no one stops him. His heart is pounding. At the globe, he focuses.

“What are you doing?” says the silver-haired angel. “You can’t go down without a body. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Obviously, what are you going to do, you can’t possess them.”

“Demons can.”

“You’re not a demon. You’re an angel.”

Aziraphale ignores this. He hesitates only a moment, this time he lets himself locate the body he’d found before. The one near Crowley, the one filled with love. He touches the model, and for a moment, he hovers, homing in closer.

And then he’s there. On Earth. A moment to get his bearings.

He’s in the desert. And the body he’s in is small, it’s staring at four.. _.is that the horsemen? Oh, good lord. Oh, no._

“What?” says the body, the boy. The Antichrist. Aziraphale feels the heart speed up.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale says, wringing the tiny hands. All right, this is...not what he’d expected exactly. And is that... _Crowley?_ He can’t see him, but the feeling is there. If Aziraphale is here, right in the thick of it, perhaps he can...do something.

“What?” the boy says again. “What’s happening? Who are you? How are you doing that?”

“I’m Aziraphale. I’m an angel.”

“An angel? I didn’t know angels could possess people.”

“You’re not exactly....well, I’m not sure we can. But I’m...here to ask you to stop this. You can, you know. You’re the only one who can. Do you...want to?”

“Stop what, exactly? The world ending? Because it seems like that’s what’s happening here, and I don’t know why or anything, but it _has_ to happen, right?”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale says. “I mean, I don’t think so. I think it’s ineffable.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

“So, if you’re an angel,” the child says. “Tell me what you think I should do.”

“I think you know,” Aziraphale says, eyeing the horsemen. “I can tell. I have...full access to your brain, you know.”

“Oh.” There’s a sudden wrenching, and Aziraphale is free. He looks down at himself, his body, dressed in tan and blue and tartan, his hands unscarred. He tugs at his bow-tie, hot in the desert heat. He’s facing away from the horsemen now, can see the caravan of … are those motor vehicles? behind the child. The large human man who thinks he’s the boy’s father is standing there, wearing a dark suit, beside a shorter...demon? The demon has dark, smooth skin and he’s clean-shaven, wearing tight, sleek clothing and clenching his fingers around a small tablet like the ones they have in Heaven. _Electronic_ , Raphael had said. The demon frowns at him, starts running at him, angry, but the boy says, “Wait!” and the demon stops.

The boy studies him. He’s a tall, curly-haired child wearing some abominable ensemble. Aziraphale has some sense of how fashion has changed, based on what they’re wearing in Heaven, but he’s never seen short pants like this, bare arms—even exposed elbows. There’s a little dog next to the boy, something like a furry golden cloud.

“Right,” says the boy. “OK. Um. So I...OK. I think I can do this.” He walks toward the horsemen. Aziraphale hesitates, and walks toward where he thinks Crowley is. This is stupid, he knows it is. The world is ending. These people are all going to be killed. And all he can think about is finding this demon. _Crowley_. It almost feels like a dream, like some fiction Aziraphale had created to keep himself going. He doesn’t need to breathe, and it’s good, because he can’t. His hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know where to put them. He’s sweating, his mouth is dry, his eyes burn. He feels as if he will scream.

But suddenly, the door to one of the jeeps opens and there’s a scramble of limbs and skirts and blazing curls and Crowley is there, standing in front of him, tall and thin and pale, dressed in black and sunglasses, his arms held out a little in front of him, uncertainly, and Aziraphale feels too warm, dizzy, loses his footing, and feels only those strong arms closing around him, holding him up.

* * *

Borne up by Crowley’s natural abilities at sophistry, Aziraphale helps him to talk down Gabriel and Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, when they arrive, irate. He and Crowley manage to stand beside each other and look like colleagues—Aziraphale tries for Beelzebub’s benefit, not wanting to get the demon in trouble. Gabriel seems focused mostly on the Antichrist, who seems to baffle him.

Aziraphale had not expected it to go this well.

Crowley averts the stares of the people he’s apparently traveled with, and somehow, things start to fade from their memories. Crowley does not explain Aziraphale’s presence, but no one questions it. No one questions it when he takes Aziraphale’s hand in his, and the two of them leave the caravan before it returns to the hotel. Crowley says they have to go, that they have to get away from here. He says he has something to show Aziraphale. It’s Aziraphale’s turn not to question it when they’re at something called an airport, when they’re somehow inside of a flying metal tube. Human ingenuity, he supposes. He looks out the window and grimaces. Crowley, beside him, holds his hand.

“It’s OK,” he says. He watches Aziraphale carefully, like he has since he returned, as if he thinks he might faint again. “Angel…”

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. It’s only then that he really registers that Crowley is in a dress and heels and lipstick and that those things have a meaning. “Oh…” he says. “Is it all right to...call you that?”

Crowley frowns. Aziraphale looks away from him, feeling wrongfooted.

“Hey,” Crowley says. “I’m still me, angel. This is just...a role. Nanny _Ashtoreth_.” He smiles. There’s something hopeful in the smile, like he wants Aziraphale to get it, to laugh at the joke.

Aziraphale does get it. Ashtoreth, the snake goddess Crowley had, well, essentially _been_ , all those years ago. But there’s something else in those words. Something more important. _Nanny_. Aziraphale shudders with the realization, the relief it entails.

“You raised him,” Aziraphale says. “You raised the Antichrist like _that_.”

“I did,” Crowley whispers. “But he was coming into his power. He was on some kind of demonic tear until you did whatever you did. Got him back to normal. _His_ normal, anyway.”

“I possessed him.”

“You _what_?” Crowley stares, lips parting. Aziraphale remembers other times they’ve parted like that. He blushes and looks away.

“They’re going to kill us,” Aziraphale says. And he laughs. How could he have thought Crowley wanted the world to end? How could he have ever believed that this demon didn’t care? That he wanted to hurt people? _Hurt Aziraphale?_ “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t want you to die,” Aziraphale says. “I find...I’m curiously averse to dying, myself. Now I’m back.”

“ _Curiously averse._..Aziraphale, what did they do to you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Right as rain,” Aziraphale smiles. He’s seen himself in the mirror. Or rather, in the glass as they’d walked inside. He’s not thin, the circles under his eyes are gone. He looks fine. Looks just as he had before he’d discorporated. Everything restored. No reason to go into any of that now. No reason to relive it.

“What year is it?” he says, conversationally.

“2018,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods, looks out the window before he remembers why he’d stopped doing that.

Crowley hesitates. He lets go of his hand and brings it up to Aziraphale’s hair, strokes it the way he’d used to. Raphael had done that once, Aziraphale remembers. He puts it out of his mind. He’d wished it were Crowley then, and it is now. It is.

“Look,” Crowley says. He takes out one of the little tablets, pokes the screen of it a few times, then hands it to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale stares. “ _The Nice and Accurate_ … Oh, my dear. You came across an Agnes Nutter? _The_ Agnes Nutter, I should say. It would be the only surviving copy.”

“Couldn’t remember if she was one of the bollocksy ones or the good ones.”

“She’s the... _Crowley_. You are a wonder.”

“So they tell me,” Crowley says. Aziraphale stares at the screen.

“How do I—”

Crowley shows him how to move to a different photo. He sprawls in the seat, looking bored, and somehow sad.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “why don’t you sleep? I think...maybe I can work with this. Figure something out for us.”

“You mean it?”

Aziraphale nods. Crowley grins. His hand lands on Aziraphale’s head, his lips on his cheek.

Aziraphale freezes.

“Sorry,” Crowley says. “But you...I’m just. You’re amazing.”

Aziraphale allows himself a small smile. It’s real, he tells himself. It’s real. But he doesn’t have it back yet.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t like it, when he’s read the text in Crowley’s pictures and worked it out. Crowley is wakeful when they arrive in London, and he pulls Aziraphale onto a train straight from the airport. Everything is bright and big, and there are too many lights. Crowley holds his hand, and it makes it easier. They don’t talk until they’re in Crowley’s flat, a huge, spartan affair, and they’re sitting on his uncomfortable, high-backed sofa. He’s changed his clothes, looks like a man now, sort of. Well, as much as he ever did. His hair is still too bright, too perfect, his eyes still what they are. Aziraphale studies him, the tight-fitting trousers showing off his lithe form. He _is_ tempting, very much so.

“So, how do you think something like that would work?” Crowley says, uneasily.

“I don’t know for sure. But it _must_ work,” Aziraphale says. “These prophecies really are nice and accurate.”

“Right.”

“So, if we just transfigure, I don’t think that would do it. It has to be _these bodies_. I think, just some contact between us, and we can move our essences across that into the—”

“No,” Crowley says.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not touching your...essence.” Aziraphale’s heart plummets. His face burns with shame. This again. Of course not, he thinks. Aziraphale has not seen anyone’s essence since bodies and forms became the done thing. And his is probably disgusting, ugly, distorted. Crowley can probably tell without having to look just from interacting with him. His human body is one thing, but...But, still, he is somewhat at a loss. In this context, the refusal seems different. Maybe it hadn’t meant what he’d thought it meant the first time it happened—that Crowley didn’t care for him in a way that led him to want that kind of intimacy. And maybe it didn’t mean Crowley was hiding something from him, that he was hiding his true disregard and scorn from Aziraphale. But it meant _something_ that he’d refuse it even now, when the purpose was hardly pleasure or intimate bonding.

“It would only be a minute,” he says, carefully. “They might not even _have_ to touch.”

“No. Let’s swap the bodies _around_ the essences,” Crowley says.

“What, bit by bit?”

“Why not?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale sighs. “No reason,” he says. “It just seems more complicated.”

“No. ’S…too risky the other way. It might be dangerous. Divine, infernal essences together...probably explode.” Crowley says. “Aziraphale...you just came back. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I couldn’t stand it if I hurt you. I don’t want anything to happen to you ever again.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Oh.”

* * *

Aziraphale warns him that Heaven is angry, but he thinks Crowley got the idea from Gabriel in the desert (was that only yesterday?). But if he’s learned anything from Raphael and Sandalphon, he doesn’t think they will try to get him to decorporate—the body and the essence will need to be destroyed together. He doesn’t tell Crowley about his time in Heaven, only that he’d come back to Earth as soon as the horn sounded for the start of the battle. Only that he’d deserted Heaven. Crowley doesn’t pry, he just says, “Oh, for the love of…” and hugs him, holds him on the couch and rubs his back and hair. _Yes,_ Aziraphale thinks, at his touch. Aziraphale resists the urge to sleep.

They walk to St. James Park to bait them. Crowley buys Aziraphale something to eat from a truck in the park, but he doesn’t have time to eat it. There’s a blow to his head, and he’s dragged away.

But Hell only puts him in a bath. It’s a bit cold. But honestly, it’s just nice to be in a body. Nice to look at Crowley’s again, though the circumstances are less than ideal. Aziraphale barely minds. If it were Crowley, of course, it would have been destruction, but for Aziraphale, it’s just a few moments of social anxiety he has to hide. And after everything he’s escaped, he’s glad to escape whatever Heaven has planned for him, glad to help Crowley do the same here in Hell. And Michael is there for parts of it, but she doesn’t recognize him. It’s almost a thrill.

Still, he’s glad when it’s done, glad to take Crowley’s hand in his and get back into his own comfortable body.

Crowley takes him to dinner, and the food—real food!—nearly sends Aziraphale into raptures. They talk for hours, smiling and laughing, just like it used to be. Aziraphale tells him about the paperwork, about the time he found him with the scale model of the Earth. Crowley tells him he was sleeping, that he didn’t hear him until it was too late. But then he looks sad for a moment, so Aziraphale changes the topic. He asks about Warlock, and Crowley lights up again, he’s proud of this, Aziraphale can see, and he is too. So proud of him, for not giving up, not losing hope for the world. (“The longer I could keep it going, the more the chance I’d see you again,” Crowley says. This makes Aziraphale blush and stammer, makes his head go empty.) Aziraphale thrills to see Crowley so happy, so _free_. He wonders if he might hug him, hold him, the way he had before. Aziraphale _had_ always _wanted_ , hadn’t he? That part of it had been just as simple then, no complicated temptation, no tricks. Crowley is amiable, agreeable (to Aziraphale at least), kind, beautiful. He squashes down the guilt at having considered anything else. But then the demon hesitates. Aziraphale’s chest clenches with fear. Crowley is no longer of Hell. He is no longer of Heaven. There is no longer any reason to distrust him, but they haven’t _discussed_ this. What they are now, what they’ll _do_ , how they’ll be, together—or even if they’ll be together at all. And Aziraphale doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, because hadn’t that been the problem? Giving in to temptation, letting himself have what he wanted? And then the doubt he’d felt in Heaven. Did Crowley feel what Aziraphale did, or was it a game, an amusement, for him?

“Can I show you something?” Crowley says, running his hand over Aziraphale’s on the table. It’s as if the hand had never been broken, as if it hadn’t been a bloody mangled mess just days ago, as if he hadn’t been barely able to hold a sword (should anyone have offered him one) with the sensitive, new skin. Aziraphale looks around. The restaurant is nearly empty.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, looking at their hands. He ought to move his away, but he doesn’t want to. Anyone could see. The humans could see. He looks around. A woman catches his eye and smiles, then looks away, back to the other people at her table. Crowley seems to understand at least that part of his anxiety.

“It’s OK, Aziraphale,” he says. “I mean, unless you don’t want me to. No one else cares. I promise. Or if they do, no one in here will hurt us for this. It’s different now. We don’t have to hide from _anyone_.”

“Oh…all right. Good. Well...then yes,” Aziraphale turns his hand over, returning the caress. Crowley grins, seems almost to have forgotten what he originally asked, so Aziraphale says, “Show me.”

Crowley nods, standing. He pulls Aziraphale to his feet. “Come on.”

* * *

Aziraphale knows where they are going before they get there. He had, after all, lived and worked in Soho for nearly a hundred years. It’s different now, too. And when Crowley takes his hand on the street, they’re not the only set of men holding on to each other in full view.

The bookshop is still there. It looks much as he’d left it, if the surroundings are different (sex shop?, and some sort of shop that sold _records_ , which doesn’t make a lot of sense to Aziraphale). He puts them out of his mind for now.

“Would you want to go in?” Crowley says. “I understand if…”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “Could we?”

“Yeah. I mean I—yeah.”

The door opens to his touch. At the front are some unfamiliar things, books with paper covers, the colors of them garish, the writing on them gauche. He frowns.

“Modern bestsellers,” Crowley says, with a nervous wave of his hand. “It’s all most people want, so I... But all your stuff’s there. Except, well, a few of the things that were in the back.”

“Burned.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Aziraphale—” Crowley hesitates.

“I didn’t have time to think,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley touches something and the light comes on in the back room. He steps through and casts around. There is his couch, his stacks of books, clean, not sooty or waterlogged. The book with the serpents is gone, he notes with a pang. “I ran for the books. I only saw one of them. But there were two. Two boys. They were jeering about...about Oscar.” _Dear Oscar,_ Aziraphale thinks. He wants to ask about him. But Crowley hadn’t liked when Aziraphale had been interested in Oscar. He hadn’t approved of the friendship. He might think Aziraphale doesn’t appreciate him if he asks now.

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “There were two. I, ah, found them.”

Aziraphale feels a sudden, icy stab. Had Crowley done something to them? From his words, his stance, Aziraphale knows he had. He doesn’t want to know details. He just wants to be happy. So he smiles a little. Crowley blinks, like he’s surprised, like he’d expected Aziraphale to ask. Crowley, he notices, somewhere in the back of his mind, doesn’t look relieved not to be asked.

“You fixed my shop?” Aziraphale says.

“I did, yeah. Everything else is as you left it,” Crowley says. “I took care of it for you, angel. Wanted it to be right when you got back to it.”

“Oh, _Crowley_. You can’t have known if I’d ever—”

Crowley steps forward, reaching for him. “No,” he says, his arms closing around Aziraphale. “Don’t. I don’t want to remember you being gone.” He holds Aziraphale so tightly it _almost_ hurts; Aziraphale can feel his body shuddering, melting, like all the fear and worry are being pulled out of him. It’s nothing like Gabriel’s hugs, so Aziraphale raises his arms to close around Crowley. Hesitantly, he brings a hand to Crowley’s hair, longer than he’d seen it for a long time before his discorporation. Crowley stills and sighs a little as he strokes it. It feels good, soothing him, feeling him calm at Aziraphale’s touch. It shouldn’t be possible, Aziraphale thinks, that he could still soothe, could still offer comfort.

Finally, Crowley steps back a little, looking down at Aziraphale’s face without actually releasing him.

“Angel,” he says, eyes bright, mouth soft and almost smiling. Their faces are very close. Aziraphale can see all of the lines and faint freckles on Crowley’s. They are familiar and beautiful and he is suddenly afraid.

“Let’s go up?” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the stairs. “I want to see everything, and then we can sit and talk for a bit, if you like.”

Crowley nods.

They ascend the stairs slowly, hand-in-hand, Crowley behind Aziraphale. The rooms are as they had been, but scrupulously clean. The stacks of books neater than Aziraphale had left them. The bed made. The lamp by the bed updated to hold a modern electric bulb. Crowley shows him how it works. And Aziraphale spots them in the new light, the Oscar first editions from downstairs.

“Oh,” he says, struggling to assimilate this information.

“Thought you wouldn’t want those sold,” Crowley says, carefully. “So I took them from the window display. Aziraphale, I…”

“You _saved_ them.”

“Yeah, of course. I knew how much they meant to you. How much _he_ meant.” Crowley shakes his head. “Aziraphale, I tried to help him. I did, but I...I was too much of a mess. I couldn’t think. Bollocksed up the whole thing.” Aziraphale frowns. Tried to _help_? Even once Aziraphale was gone? And bollocksed up _how_ , exactly?

“What? What do you mean?” he says, suddenly breathless.

“I tried, angel. The things they were saying about him. And he did _not_ make it easy on himself. He...he went to prison. Two years. He got sick there, I think. Looked terrible. I don’t know exactly what happened to him after that. I’ve heard he moved to France. Died young.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale finds he had expected as much. He nods. “I wish I could have stayed. I might have been able to figure out something.”

“I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.”

“You tried to help him?”

Crowley nods. “I was useless. Don’t think I changed a thing.”

“Come here, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, shaking. Crowley does. He’s across the small room with one step. Aziraphale reaches up and removes his glasses, stares into his wide eyes. Crowley looks nervous, as if he’s holding back tears, and then his lips part, just slightly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. “I do still want you so,” he says. “Kiss me?”

Crowley does; he smiles, a wobbly thing, and presses forward, gingerly, his lips soft and hot against Aziraphale’s. His warm breath on Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale finds that he cannot respond to it, can scarcely believe it’s happening, the touch so careful, so gentle, as if he is a precious thing. How many times had he tried to remember this tenderness? How many times had they told him it wasn’t real? Something skitters in his abdomen, flares in his chest, and he is laughing, bringing his arms up and around this remarkable being.

“You gorgeous, wonderful thing,” he says, clutching him close. Crowley is sinew and bones against him, and Aziraphale remembers the way this creature writhes beneath him, the way it feels to press inside him, wrapped in his long, corded limbs, to wring pleasure from each other. He has never wanted it with anyone else, has almost forgotten what it is to want it in Crowley’s absence. But now, with this body against his... “Crowley, could we...do you think we might still make love?” A sudden rush of shame, of uncertainty. What is he doing, what is he _saying_? “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to assume.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. I’m yours, angel. You know I’m yours. Always yours. However you want me.” Crowley kisses him, a peck on his cheek, then a little lower, lower, until his lips are on Aziraphale’s neck. “But...it’s _soon_ , angel. Are you sure it’s what you want?” Crowley’s hands find Aziraphale’s. “There’s no rush. We’ve got so much time.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “If you’d prefer to wait—”

“No,” Crowley says. “I want what you want. Whatever you want. Anything.”

 _Yes_. It’s like a key and a lock that only fit each other. This is how it was. Joy bubbles through him, Aziraphale opens to it, and there it is—freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: gaslighting, psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of the Holocaust, violence/physical abuse, public humiliation, sexual shaming, internalized sexual shame.


	13. Two Tragedies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale reconciles his time in Heaven with the reality of Earth and Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.”  
> —from _Lady Windermere’s Fan_ by Oscar Wilde
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.
> 
> * * *
> 
> cw: ANXIOUS RUMINATION, explicit sex, internalized sexual shame.
> 
> * * *

Crowley sees it, that day, after they’re back from their failed executions, he feels it sometimes, the little tongues of desire, hot and brilliant like flames. But the flashes are so short, like they die, almost as soon as Aziraphale breathes them into existence. Crowley doesn’t pry, doesn’t look harder to see if there are other feelings there, snuffing them out. Because something about Aziraphale feels different. The smiles, the effervescence, that’s all still there, but there’s something else, a kind of questioning, a guardedness. Crowley doesn’t want to intrude, just wants to let this progress naturally, get Aziraphale feeling comfortable again, let him have as much space as he needs. He’d been gone a hundred years, after all, wouldn’t make sense for him to act like they’d been together this whole time. So Crowley thinks he’ll offer to go back to his own that night, let Aziraphale get used to his own home again. Maybe come back in the morning, take him to breakfast, show him around the changed London.

He’s surprised when Aziraphale suggests sex. But the angel is back, beaming at him, his lips against Crowley’s, arms shrouding him. That’s all he needs.

So, he lets himself be led to the bed. Lets Aziraphale push off his jacket and waistcoat, lift off his scarf and chain and shirt, eyes drinking him in, pressing fingers into every dip in Crowley’s body, lips kissing everywhere, closing over his nipples, his precise, soft tongue working there until they pebble and Crowley’s mind is blank.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, as Crowley whimpers and draws his legs up, head falling back against the pillow. His chest is wet from Aziraphale’s ministrations, and he reaches for Aziraphale’s head, trying to get him to touch him there again, ward away the cold with the heat of his mouth.

Aziraphale struggles with Crowley’s trousers, and Crowley almost doesn’t notice, distracted as he is by the sensation of them moving against his sensitized skin. He thrusts against them when the waist of them snags on his hardening cock, and Aziraphale gasps, presses his hand over the bulge.

“You really do wear these in full daylight,” he whispers. “They don’t leave very much to the imagination, do they?”

“There’s a zipper, angel,” Crowley says. “See?” Aziraphale’s hand finds it, strokes it with a finger. Crowley writhes, groaning. Aziraphale bends and kisses Crowley’s stomach, then undoes the button, fingers grasping the zipper and pulling it down until Crowley’s cock protrudes, a bead of precome sliding down to the base.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale whispers, leaning forward to kiss it. “I missed this,” he says. Crowley’s about to agree with him, but then he adds, “Having a body.”

“What?” Crowley says. “I thought... _oh_ …” Aziraphale is tracing his tongue along the underside of Crowley’s cock. Crowley feels a surge of affection, drops his hands onto Aziraphale’s shoulders. He’s careful not to pull him closer, not like this. “Ahh...I thought you said they gave you your body back in Heaven.”

“Oh, it’s complicated—it’s nothing,” Aziraphale says. “Let’s get you out of these.”

Crowley miracles the trousers away, and Aziraphale laughs. “Oh my,” he says. “So eager. Good.”

“Is it, angel?” Crowley reaches for him, He watches Aziraphale, reaches for him, dropping his hands into his hair. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug Aziraphale closer, he just wants to do _something_ , wants to show Aziraphale how close he wants him.

Aziraphale nods. “Quite.” His breath ghosts over Crowley’s cock, and Aziraphale runs his fingers beneath it, stroking his balls, then lower, circling and circling his hole as he slides his mouth over Crowley's cock, pressing his tongue into the base of it. Crowley cries out. Aziraphale bends one of Crowley’s legs and pushes it up onto his shoulder. “Can I—” he begins.

“Yes. Anything. Please.”

His fingers are slick as he presses the tip of one against Crowley’s hole, dipping inside.

“Aziraphale, oh God. You’re...too good. But I...want to touch you. I want to see you. Make you feel good too.” Crowleyy cups Aziraphale’s buttocks with his hands, squeezing the soft flesh. Aziraphale smiles and shakes his head.

“I want to watch you,” he says. “Can we do that? Just this time.” He leans forward and kisses Crowley on the forehead, then on the lips, his fingers still buried inside of him.

“Yesssss. OK. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

Aziraphale nods, sliding his fingers in and out slowly. Crowley closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “Can you…?”

“What, darling?”

“Your tongue. Would you?” Crowley looks at him, the way he smiles then, a mischievous little smirk. _Bastard_. But Aziraphale bends forward again, hands on Crowley’s calves, his hair tickling Crowley’s thighs. His tongue dips under Crowley’s cock, there’s breath there, then he laves Crowley’s balls, licks a thin streak down his perineum, and finally, finally, he’s dipping into him. Crowley’s wet, dripping with precome and spit, his hands brushing over Aziraphale’s maddenly clothed shoulders, fisting in the sheets. Crowley’s whining, he realizes. For a moment, he worries Aziraphale won’t do anything more, that he’ll just leave him like this, naked and aching. His hands fumble, trying to find skin, trying to show his need without begging, they’re in Aziraphale’s hair, now, winding into it, not pulling, never pulling, never risking the angel’s pain.

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yessss. Aziraphale, please.” Aziraphale shoves his own trousers partway down, barely letting Crowley glimpse his cock and thighs.

Aziraphale slicks them both with a miracle, and presses in slowly, Crowley clenching around him, thrashing as Aziraphale nudges his prostate, his body already sensitive, his cock straining.

“Is this all right?” Aziraphale asks him. He’s inside Crowley, all the way inside, and his fingers stroke Crowley’s chest, then Crowley’s thighs, knee to hip, from where they’re crooked up, around him.

“Beautiful,” Crowley says, running a hand over Aziraphale’s soft thighs, pushing the trousers down a little more, then bending his body up to reach his hand between Aziraphale’s buttocks. Aziraphale gasps.

“OK?” Crowley says. “Can I?”

“Yes, yes, please.” Crowley smiles and strokes him there again. He wants to ask Aziraphale to undress for him, to please, please let him miracle away the ruched up trousers, the shirt and jacket and bow-tie, or at least the shoes, but then Aziraphale looks down between them, where they’re joined, his expression changing from something like desire to shock.

“You OK?” Crowley says again, running a hand over his skin. It’s not enough skin, not enough, but it’s there, and it’s warm and soft, and it’s _Aziraphale_ , and he’s inside Crowley, and that’s enough, that’s perfect, that’s as it should be, finally.

“You excite me,” Aziraphale says again, like it’s a marvel, a wonder, and begins to thrust. Crowley’s eyes fall closed and he groans. Aziraphale’s hand slides down Crowley’s belly, wraps and tightens around Crowley’s cock, stroking him. When they come, they come together, almost at the same time, Crowley’s own thick spurts landing on his stomach. Aziraphale pulls out slowly and collapses. Crowley lies there a few moments before he cleans them up. It doesn’t seem like a rush this time, and he wants to savor it. The reunion, the freedom. They can have this now, and he doesn’t have to worry that someone will see. Not Heaven, not Hell, not even humans. Crowley kisses his shoulder and Aziraphale straightens up, sits on the side of the bed, so Crowley sits up, too, using that miracle now, before he slithers around him until he’s at the edge of the bed. He drops off the side of it, at Aziraphale’s feet to take off his shoes, to ease him out of the trousers. Aziraphale lets him, but he pulls his undergarments back up rather furtively. “Is this OK?” Crowley says as he raises his hands to push off Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale nods and undoes his own bow-tie and waistcoat. He leaves his shirt on.

“Aziraphale? You OK?”

He smiles. “Of course. Absolutely tickety-boo, my darling.”

“Lie with me?” Crowley asks. “Let me hold you?”

Aziraphale only nods. He’s oddly still, hands crossed over each other, but not wringing.

“Angel,” Crowley says, when they’re tucked together under the covers. “Are you sure you’re all right? Was it too much?”

“You are so beautiful to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sadly. He brings a hand up, sliding it through Crowley’s hair, pushing it away from his face. Crowley frowns. It’s not just the tone, it’s the phrasing. Aziraphale has called him beautiful before, but he’s never qualified it this way, has never seemed hurt by it. He kisses Crowley’s cheek. “The things I want with you,” he whispers.

“There’s nothing wrong with what you want,” Crowley says. This sadness, this shame...it’s new. He has a sudden thought, the same thought that’s dogged him for more than a hundred years now. “You...haven’t told me if they found out in Heaven. Is that...Aziraphale, tell me? Did they...say things? Did they hurt you?”

“Oh, Crowley. Don’t be ridiculous. I daresay you saw how they are. And neither of us will ever go back there.”

“They tried to kill you,” Crowley says, speaking of his time in Heaven. He’s hoping Aziraphale will ask about it still. But Aziraphale just nods.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “I believed I’d be killed when I left. I’d resigned myself to it. But I knew I couldn’t fight you,” Aziraphale says. “I couldn’t destroy our world.”

“It’s all right now,” Crowley reminds him. He reaches for him, pulls him close. “It’s all right,” he says, over and over, until Aziraphale’s body unclenches and he relaxes against Crowley. Crowley kisses his head then. “Did they know? About us?”

Aziraphale kisses his cheek. “Does it really matter?” he says.

Crowley wants to shout at him that of course it does, wants to demand that he explain how he can even ask that question, the question that had haunted him for more than a century. But he can’t speak to him that way, and he can’t find the words, and in the meantime he presses Aziraphale’s head to his shoulder, strokes his hair. And something occurs to him.

“Do you wish you were still...you know? I mean, do you regret it? Opposing them? Leaving?”

“I don’t want to talk about Heaven anymore. It’s over now. We’re together,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

“We’re together,” Crowley repeats. The words sound like wonder; he’d never thought they would be together again, but there’d been something about the way Aziraphale said them after mentioning Heaven, something more like shellshock.

“Is it what you want?” Aziraphale says. “You must have thought I wouldn’t return. It’s...it’s all right. I understand if you have other arrangements, other plans.”

“What? Yes! Of course. How— _yes_ , Aziraphale. Yeah. Yes. I kept your shop for you, didn’t I? You met Warlock. Saw what I did there. I _hoped_ , angel. I thought about you all the time. This is what I want. This is more than I dared to want.”

“All right,” Aziraphale whispers. “Well, I think I’d rather like to sleep now. If you don’t...if that’s all right.” His eyes flicker to Crowley, uncertain, darting away under his gaze. Crowley stares, a cold, sick feeling flaring through him. _What’s wrong?_ Aziraphale looks _afraid_. He’s really _asking_ Crowley if he can sleep. Or is trying to get out of the conversation? Did he regret what they’d done? Was he the one who didn’t want this anymore? But what had gone wrong?

“Wh—of course,” Crowley says. “You don’t...need my permission, angel.”

Aziraphale nuzzles his shoulder, and Crowley pulls him closer, comforted when he feels Aziraphale burrow against him. Maybe it’s nothing. He kisses the top of the angel’s head, smelling his hair. Aziraphale seems relaxed again, and it makes Crowley’s chest swell. As he begins to drift off, himself, he hears Aziraphale say something, quietly, drowsily, his lips pressed against Crowley’s skin so he can’t quite make out the words. But it sounds like, “I’m sorry.”

* * *

It’s a fitful sleep. Crowley wakes several times, jarring himself out of sleep with the memories of the short time he’d been in Heaven, with Aziraphale’s reticence and lack of interest whenever he brings it up. That whispered apology.

Aziraphale’s execution had not been a public affair. There had been only three of the Archangels present; their faces all parodies of various holy emotions, Uriel’s contorted with pity and disappointment, Sandalphon practically indecent in his eagerness at seeing punishment applied, and Gabriel…

It was Gabriel who’d worried him. The first two, well, that was just typical Heaven. Even if Sandalphon himself was unfamiliar to Crowley, nothing about his response was anything unexpected, though it certainly didn’t bode well for what Aziraphale might have been through if the Archangels had known about their relationship.

But Gabriel had looked disgusted and positively gleeful, as if it wasn’t so much that he wanted Aziraphale _punished_ for the sake of justice, but that he wanted, _personally_ , to see Aziraphale destroyed. Aziraphale had been there with them for a hundred years. What could Crowley’s sweet, petty angel possibly have done to merit that? Surely not even this offense against the Great Plan, in all its enormity, would draw _that_ kind of undignified abandon from an Archangel? Crowley could only think of himself, of the way he’d insinuated himself into Aziraphale’s life, encouraging him when he indulged his less than divine impulses until he’d found himself worrying for the angel. _Had_ they found out? And if they had, about what? The arrangement? The...fraternizing? The sex? The love? Aziraphale had told him nothing, really.

He tried to behave himself because he didn’t want to invite suspicion, didn’t want to act too differently to how Aziraphale might, didn’t want to give himself the chance to lose control and try to take on three Archangels and all of Heaven alone.

He’d bitten his lip against that demon who’d come up with the hellfire, the same one from Cornwall, from Megiddo, and asked to hit him, or rather, Aziraphale.

“Go on,” Sandalphon had breathed. Gabriel had looked smug. Crowley let a flash of indignation and rage shoot through his face, a look that was a promise of a reckoning, and the little demon flagged, threw up his hands, and retreated.

Crowley had walked into the hellfire. After a second, Uriel had gasped and gone to her knees, weeping and praying. Gabriel had gawked, mouth gaping open. “Stop it,” he’d shouted at Crowley. “Stop whatever you’re doing. This is _not authorized_. You need to...Aziraphale.” he took a breath. Turned his head from side to side, shrugged. Took another breath. “Aziraphale, we agreed. You said you understood.”

Crowley had almost wanted to laugh at Gabriel, so appalled at Aziraphale’s unauthorized _not dying_. But the implications of what he was saying... _We agreed. You understood._

Had Aziraphale agreed to die?

But Crowley hadn’t had time to think about it because Sandalphon was suddenly holding a gleaming staff, walking toward him with it extended, as if about to use it to shove him from the fire. Crowley twitched when he saw holy sigils on it, but he had to keep calm. Aziraphale was a warrior. Heaven’s warrior. He would know what this was, and he wouldn’t be afraid. He threw his head back a little; not defiant, assured.

“Stop,” Uriel said, standing, and it took everyone a moment to realize that she was speaking to the other Archangels. “Stop this now. Just…” she waved a hand, beckoning them after her. They walked off. Crowley couldn’t resist waving when they turned back to him, still nestled warmly inside the flame.

“How the Heaven…?” began the little demon.

Crowley ignored him.

When the Archangels came back, they bade the demon withdraw the flames and leave Heaven. Crowley made a show of letting the flames catch on his suit jacket, of tamping them out and letting them smolder so the Archangels would keep their distance. He needn’t have bothered—they were already terrified, didn’t know what Aziraphale was anymore, they said.

They let him go. Crowley tried to keep his smile beatific, like Aziraphale’s, saving his smugness for when his back was to them.

“Figures,” Gabriel muttered. “There was too much there that didn’t add up.”

What the Hell was that supposed to mean?

“We’re well shot of him,” Sandalphon whispered, as Crowley walked out, trying not to lean into his hips. He used a miracle to repair the jacket, to make sure none of the hellfire lingered.

He’d met Aziraphale in the park, then, had been stunned by the lightness of him, had listened to him recount what had happened in Hell, had been stunned again to find that it was less fucked up than what had happened in Heaven. But Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to hear about it, just asked, “But you’re all right?” every time he tried to bring it up. And Aziraphale, when Crowley tried to ask, hadn’t wanted to tell him about Heaven, or what had happened there.

And after they had sex, Aziraphale had seemed subdued. He was usually enthusiastic, almost theatrical about his satedness, affectionate and full of praise for Crowley. But this time, after they’d both come, Aziraphale was suddenly on edge, sad and alert. If Crowley hadn’t spent most of the encounter being overwhelmed and ravished, he would have worried he’d hurt the angel somehow. _The things I want with you_ , he’d said, as if they were dire things indeed, things that could never come into being. He hadn’t seemed upset with Crowley, just a bit down, maybe scared. But why? Aziraphale must know that Crowley would give him anything. He asks himself again if it had been too much for Aziraphale to give up Heaven for this. It had hurt the angel before, when he’d felt abandoned by them. Just because he hadn’t wanted to fight against Crowley, to help destroy the Earth, didn’t mean it had been easy for him to give up everything to prevent it. Crowley would have to be gentle, not assume too much. Maybe go easy on the whole overwhelmed with joy thing.

Crowley wakes one, two, times, and Aziraphale is still there, no longer pressed into him, but on his back, then at the other side of the bed, curled up. But when he wakes in the morning, Aziraphale is gone.

* * *

Aziraphale’s stomach clenches, rumbling. He had forgotten to deal with the contents of his stomach, with the wine and food, and now, with all the _exertion.._. He rolls away from Crowley, not wanting to wake him. A miracle quells his gut, but there’s something else bubbling up inside of him, pricking at his eyes. Something he’s tried not to dwell on, but it won’t leave. He’d slept just fine, tucked against _his demon_ , who he _loved_ (he can’t stop hearing the words in Gabriel’s voice), but now, thinking about it, he shakes. How could he have...barely twenty-four hours back on this spinning rock, and all it took was Crowley’s presence to have him...behaving in such a manner. It shouldn’t be possible. He was an angel. An angel. A godforsaken angel, and here he was, lying with a _demon_ , _pleasuring_ him, pleasuring _himself_ , and telling himself that it was all right because he, Aziraphale, wanted it. No, it bloody well was not; that was exactly what made it _not_ all right!

He glances at Crowley, tries to see evil, temptation there. But Crowley, he suddenly remembers, is not of Hell any longer, not any more than Aziraphale is of Heaven. What reason would he have now to touch Aziraphale’s mind to forcibly tempt him? And if Aziraphale, if other angels, are capable of evil as Aziraphale now knows that they are, then Crowley, and perhaps other demons, are capable of good. _Crowley_ had not suggested they go to bed. Crowley had not urged him on with kisses to every part of him, had not stripped him until he was naked and vulnerable beneath him. Crowley had kept this shop for him, had run it for him, even, to keep questions and buyers away. Had stocked bestsellers to sell so people wouldn’t ask too many questions and kept his treasures safe for him. There was no reason to do that if Crowley did not care for him, if he had not at the very least, wanted to remember Aziraphale. But then the problem was with Aziraphale. Of course it was. _You’re just wrong. How can you be so wrong about everything?_ But Heaven had been wrong, too, he thought. Wrong about Armaggeddon, about the Earth and its people. Were they wrong about what he deserved? He _hadn’t_ deserved to be publicly flogged, at least. Aziraphale wasn’t sure it was possible to deserve that. And...were they wrong about Crowley?

In a flash of light from outside, Crowley’s hair lights up, very briefly, the planes of his face illuminated.

“Oh, God,” Aziraphale breathes. Oh, God. He can’t stop. It will never stop. This _gluttony_. How he wants and wants. Aziraphale can see now, that it is a sickness—it should not be in his nature, and yet it is. It reaches through him, through every part of him, down to the cells of his corporation.

And what if, just as his nature is constant and warped, something in Crowley’s is too? A demon should not be capable of love. Of all of its attendant care and vulnerability and tenderness and grief. Perhaps he is not. Perhaps he, like Aziraphale, has been too much alone and has twisted into something mutant and unrecognizable in his time on Earth. Perhaps he covets Aziraphale, finds something in him to soothe the wounds of Hell, of his separation from Her, while also to slake his urges to corrupt and defile? Couldn’t that _look_ , from the outside, like love, as Gabriel had suggested? Aziraphale remembers the wars Gabriel and Michael said Crowley had started. They have not discussed those. And there was still the matter of whatever he’d done to the two boys. He hadn’t told Aziraphale. Then he must have known he’d disapprove. Must have known that Aziraphale would be able to tell if he’d lied about it. So then, perhaps that’s all it ever was—a complementary set of deficiencies, fitting together like two puzzle pieces?

But then, why had he helped Oscar?

 _Hell could have directed it,_ Aziraphale’s mind supplies, unhelpfully. They would have had their reasons. Certainly, they must have known about Oscar. Even Gabriel had troubled to look in on him.

Aziraphale sits up, swinging his feet to the ground, agitated. He moves quietly, examining his body and finding it completely restored. Portly and unmarked, as if he’d never been away at all, as if Sandalphon had never struck him, as if it had not lain in Heaven looking wasted and thin. He dresses himself in the conjured clothing (he will have to find a tailor), and makes his way down to the back room, thinking to sit and sip tea. Instead he curls up on the couch, pressing his face to the back of it, as he’d done in his little room in Heaven. And as he’d done there, he weeps, until, grateful again for his body, he wills himself into a deep, unbreathing sleep.

* * *

Crowley’s relief at finding Aziraphale in the backroom is overwhelmed by his alarm at the way he’s positioned, curled up and pressed into the back of the couch, not breathing, his collar damp.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He knows that Aziraphale does not sleep heavily, when he sleeps, but he doesn’t stir at his name. Crowley has a horrible moment when he thinks Aziraphale has somehow discorporated again, and he gives a yelp, his hands going to Aziraphale’s shoulders, frantic, but careful. He’s warm. “Aziraphale, please. Aziraphale.”

His eyelids flicker into a blink. Crowley chokes back relief, sinks down into an undignified squat, and rests his head on the arm of the sofa.

“Angel,” Crowley says.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He sounds confused.

“Of course, yeah. You...are you all right?” Aziraphale sits up, and Crowley goes to sit next to him, to wrap an arm around him, but Aziraphale’s look stops him, that pain he’d been trying to hide the night before, distilled into something naked and undeniable. He looks stiff, restrained, so Crowley stays his hand, and straightens to standing instead. “Oh, angel. Tell me,” Crowley says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Aziraphale sweeps his eyes over him. Crowley’s not dressed. He’s in his satin robe, and he regrets it now, because Aziraphale’s face goes tight, and he doesn’t look at Crowley anymore, like he’s seen enough to know there was something wrong with what he’d seen. It makes Crowley go cold with hurt and apprehension, but he’s still not ready for it when Aziraphale speaks.

“I think,” he says, hesitantly. “Crowley, please. I think...you should go now.”

“What? Why? What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale doesn’t move. Doesn’t repeat himself. Doesn’t look at Crowley.

“Aziraphale?”

Nothing. He’s so still. Crowley wants to grab him and make him move. It’s like he’s not even there. He’s never seen him like this before. It’s chilling. Crowley’s mouth opens. Crowley stares.

Silence.

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly. Tip-top.” Aziraphale isn’t looking at him. His jaw is clenched, his voice tight, almost angry. Crowley stares.

“All right,” Crowley says, uncertainly, fighting back anger and fear. “But, look, I’ll call you. No, wait—you don’t have—I’ll come back then. This afternoon?”

Aziraphale huffs, but his whole body goes tense, shaking, and Crowley gapes a moment. All right, he’ll go. If that’s what it’s doing to Aziraphale that he’s still here, he’ll go. But he can’t stop himself from hoping.

“Right,” Crowley says. “Sorry. Right. Gone. I’m gone. If that’s what you want.” He can’t keep the twist of frustration out of his voice on that last, because this doesn’t make any sense to him, doesn’t feel fair. If Aziraphale had asked for time alone, he could have respected that, but this...it feels like Aziraphale is afraid he _won’t_ go, like Aziraphale thinks he’s done something wrong, but won’t tell him what it is. Like Aziraphale suddenly doesn’t trust him, doesn’t even like him, like nothing about Crowley matters to Aziraphale except Crowley leaving.

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale says to the corner of the room.

Crowley snaps his fingers, swapping his robe for his street clothes, and bangs out of the shop.

“Right…” he mutters. “That was a thing.”

He pretends that he’s not blinking back tears. He pretends he doesn’t want to drive the Bentley so long and so fast that it flames, that it burns him up inside it, and anyone unlucky enough to get in his way.

* * *

Alone, Aziraphale returns to sleep.

* * *

Crowley returns to his flat in Mayfair. He’s trying, and failing, not to be angry, not to feel abandoned and alone and dessicated. A hundred and twenty-three years, four months and twenty-six days. He’d waited for Aziraphale. And Aziraphale had _come back_. Aziraphale had been happy. He’d wanted them to go to bed. Crowley thought he had given him what he’d wanted. He’d thought Aziraphale was OK. There were obviously things he wasn’t telling Crowley, but he’d thought he should wait, let him do it in his own time. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. And Aziraphale was acting like Crowley had done something awful, like he was afraid of him, like he couldn’t even bear to look at him. Aziraphale had never acted like that. Never. It made Crowley feel monstrous.

Crowley replayed the encounter over and over in his head. Yes, it had been strange. But he hadn’t done anything, he didn’t think, that was hurtful. Aziraphale had seemed so single-minded about Crowley’s pleasure. And the whole thing had been over so soon, the general feeling of passion over when they both came, neither of them with any desire to prolong the desperate encounter. Or so Crowley had assumed. He hadn’t asked him. Perhaps it was inconsiderate. Perhaps it had hurt Aziraphale, after so long, that Crowley hadn’t been more assertive.

“You excite me,” he’d said. Had he sounded sad? Resentful?

Crowley has no idea what to do with that. But it doesn’t help him not to get angry. Doesn’t help him not to worry about what it was that Aziraphale _hadn’t_ said.

He’s relieved when his phone rings that night. But it’s Harriet Dowling. Of course it isn’t Aziraphale, who doesn’t even have a phone. Harriet wants to know if Ash is OK, when she’ll be by to pick up her things and have a going-away lunch. She wants to apologize for how weird that whole thing was in Israel. (Did he remember what happened, exactly? She didn’t—couldn’t. It was almost like the whole diplomatic contingent had some kind of break with reality.) Wants to ask about the man who’d met Ash there, who’d gotten in the vehicle with them, and held Ash’s hand as they drove away from that place. Was that her angel? Gosh, why can’t she remember anything about him?

Crowley puts it off. But after three days, he’s still heard nothing from Aziraphale, despite being able to tell he’s still there. Whenever Crowley thinks about trying to talk to him, he remembers how Aziraphale had looked at him, like he was angry and afraid. He didn’t want Aziraphale to feel like that. If that was how he made Aziraphale feel... So he dresses as Ash, gets into the Bentley, and drives off to the estate.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t move from the couch. He doesn’t sleep for much longer, only a few hours really. Well, twenty-four or so. Sleep isn’t natural for him, isn’t something he’d ever actively wanted until he’d been confined, bodiless and alone, in Heaven. There is a comfort in it, in not being forced to be awake, constantly confronting your realities, your mind, and the thoughts and imaginings it forced into awareness.

 _Crowley_. He’d always been at the front of Aziraphale’s mind, but Aziraphale had never thought he’d see him again. Had never thought his reality would be anything but the loneliness of Heaven. Because even if he’d survived the battle and they’d let him back into the host, it wouldn’t have been for millennia, and the host, well, it had never felt like it did with Crowley. After being with Crowley, nothing would have measured up.

It’s just that...well, _this_ , this new reality, doesn’t exactly measure up, either. Crowley is here, and he is kind and beautiful and tempting and seems to want Aziraphale still, and Earth is lovely and complicated, and Aziraphale is back in his body…

So why does it feel as if Gabriel is still there, yelling at him? Why does it feel as if Uriel is telling him he needs to repent, as if Giriale is standing beside him in the garden, her mouth hanging open, her laugh in his ears. _You don’t really believe he loved you?_ And every time he looks at Crowley, every time he feels his touch, he thinks he shouldn’t like this, shouldn’t want this. Is it real? Does Crowley really love him? Is this really love? Is Crowley capable…

Over and over again.

Heaven had rejected him. Aziraphale doesn’t want to go back. They’d been horrible, been _wrong_. But...he isn’t an angel. Is he? He isn’t _good_. _He_ ’s wrong. So how could he know if Heaven was really wrong? He can’t feel love. He’d only been deluding himself from loneliness, and now he’s lonelier than ever. Everything about him is twisted. So how can he trust what he wants? How could Crowley want him? Does Crowley know that something is wrong with him, deeply wrong? Had he _always_ known? Aziraphale remembered a night, more than a hundred years ago, the two of them on his couch, this very couch. Crowley had cried the first time Aziraphale had taken him into his mouth. He had been afraid Aziraphale would Fall, would be hurt by what they had done together. Aziraphale had been the one to tell him it wasn’t wrong. Crowley had known. He’d asked Aziraphale if he could touch him. And Aziraphale had begged him to. But then Crowley had done it again and again. Had he still thought it was wrong? But if he had, so what? What else did you expect from a demon? But Crowley had never hurt him. Not intentionally. _I couldn’t stand it if I hurt you_ , he’d said, as Aziraphale tried to convince him that they needed to swap bodies. Aziraphale had believed him, had let it soothe his worry. It’s one of the many reasons he can’t tell him what happened in Heaven. If he loves Aziraphale, it will upset him that their love made Aziraphale suffer. If he doesn’t, well...it’s embarrassing. But it’s that either way. It had been Heaven, after all. It can’t be much compared to what Hell is like.

Aziraphale can’t sort through it. It never helps, never gets him anywhere to go over this. All he knows is that what he did with Crowley is wrong. And he still wants it.

So he’d asked Crowley to go, because he couldn’t think, because as long as he was still there, Aziraphale would want him, would be confused by it, the temptation of it, the strength of his own gluttony.

So he doesn’t eat. Doesn’t read, doesn’t sleep anymore, or do anything else to alleviate the pain. It’s all gluttony, really. He’s a glutton. He does too much of things he likes, things that feel good. He wants them too much, keeps wanting even when he has them. He’s greedy. He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t want them. Shouldn’t do them.

But he keeps seeing Crowley’s face. The way he’d looked, like he wanted to help Aziraphale, to comfort him, then the uncertainty, and the worry, and the fear and hurt. And then anger.

Yes, Crowley was angry with him. Aziraphale comforted himself with that. Because if Crowley acted on that anger, if he hurt Aziraphale, then Aziraphale would know that it wasn’t real. And he could put the guilt at how he’d treated the demon behind him, and move on in his shame.

But that wasn’t right? It couldn’t be? Even if he only looked at what he’d learned since he’d been back: Crowley had saved his books. Had tried to help Oscar. Had trusted Aziraphale, made himself bare and vulnerable because Aziraphale had requested it, because Aziraphale had practically begged him. And this was how Aziraphale had treated him after? He thinks of the sweet child Crowley had made of the Antichrist. The dedication and patience that must have taken, with no guarantee of any reward. He’d been so brave, so strong. So good. Oh, God. How could it be wrong to join with him?

After a day or so, Aziraphale stands up, decides to go for a walk, ignoring the tears as they drip from his face, ignoring the stares of people as he passes them by, too tired to use a miracle to avoid attention. He walks for a long time.

When his feet take him to Mayfair, he does not resist. He finds the building again. He lets himself in and waits outside the door of the flat when there is no answer to the bell (more of a buzz, really—was that something new they were doing?). Dear Crowley. Whatever the truth is, Aziraphale has treated him poorly. He has always made Aziraphale feel happy and loved. Whatever the truth is. So perhaps that’s enough. Certainly, it’s enough to earn him an apology. And maybe a chance to give an explanation or two that could at least allay some of Aziraphale’s fears. At any rate, Aziraphale reminds himself, Crowley is all he has now. Heaven doesn’t care. They really don’t this time. Aziraphale can make his own decisions. He can’t lose Crowley. He doesn’t want to. Not even if...not even if it’s not real. Which it is. Of course. ( _But how could it be? Even if there’s no malice in the demon, how could Crowley love him?_ )

No, Aziraphale will make his own decisions.

Aziraphale ignores the way this makes his heart pound with fear.

He knocks on the door again, but he doesn’t think Crowley is there. Never mind. He will wait. Maybe Crowley will talk to him. Maybe he will let him in, forgive him? Maybe they can sit on the couch and drink Scotch, and laugh and embrace.

 _Better not make love,_ Aziraphale thinks. It had been a bad decision before. He had wanted so badly to feel happy with Crowley, open and free, the way he had before, and Crowley had been so sweet and so lovely, and Aziraphale had been powerless against the strength of the wonder and desire the demon stirred in him, but then he’d been filled with regret after, disgusted with himself, with his own abandon, his inability to resist a temptation he shouldn’t even feel, by a kind of love that was, maybe, not real. How could he, with his flawed perception, even claim to recognize it as love? How then can he even be sure that what _he_ feels for _Crowley_ is love? But even now his body stirs at the thought of Crowley’s. Even now, his chest blooms with the need to protect him, to be with him, sharing smiles and laughs and even worries and fear. He aches for Crowley to hold him, to reassure him, but how could he explain this to him? _You’re not meant to extend your love to the Fallen. They can only twist it into this._ Uriel had said. It didn’t feel twisted. But perhaps that was only a mark of how damaged Aziraphale was, that he couldn’t even see the problem. Had Uriel meant that if any angel loved a member of the Fallen, they would lust for them? But how would she _know_ that? The implication had been that Aziraphale’s sin was singular, so at best, that could only be a theory, and on examination, it made no sense. No, more likely, she’d meant something like what Gabriel did, about humans confusing desire and love, that the Fallen could only experience and offer the former. But what if he’d been right—what if Aziraphale really only desired Crowley because something inside of him had been altered from its state of grace, had changed into something else entirely, and even what _he_ feels isn’t love, but some kind of unholy, desperate desire?

Raguel would have seen. Wouldn’t he? If Aziraphale was as warped as all that? They would have destroyed him long ago. And he had felt love for others that hadn’t turned to desire. On Earth he’d sensed the love of the Almighty; there’s a thrum of it even now that he refuses to examine, for reasons he also doesn’t want to look too closely at.

He puts it out of his mind. He _does_ love Crowley, he _does_. There’s no real reason to interrogate it. That part isn’t wrong, no matter your perspective. Not now. They are, after all, on their own side for real, both of them cast out from Heaven and Hell. There _ought_ to be some allegiance. And strictly speaking, there’s nothing wrong with desire born of love. Angels _do_ merge essences sometimes. Join their bodies the way humans do. It’s rare, but it happens, largely unquestioned, and no one has ever been punished for just that. It’s only the demonic component here that ever called Aziraphale’s actions and feelings into question. And that’s not even really a thing anymore. Not really, not exactly, if they don’t have those opposing allegiances anymore.

But maybe in the relevant way, it is. After all, his own _fabric_ hasn’t changed. Crowley’s hasn’t either. So _does Crowley—can Crowley—_ love him? Is that even possible, really? Aziraphale takes a few deep breaths. He has never thought himself proud.He had not believed that there was anything about him that made him exceptional, that could have caused a demon to change into something he had not previously been. He’d only thought that _Crowley_ loved _him_. To say nothing of other demons or their abilities in that regard.

And yes, he _had_ felt special for it, but after the fact. A private kind of special, between himself and Crowley—cherished, rather than adulated. Not anything he would have expected anyone to understand. Not something he would have _bragged_ about, as if it were to his credit. But even so, perhaps that was more pride. Perhaps not recognizing his pride was pride. Perhaps...

No, no. He will not think of this. He has put it _out of his mind_. He has to.

* * *

“Ash!” Harriet’s arms close around Crowley. “Oh, my gosh! You got here so much sooner than I expected! Were you on the road already when you texted?”

“I was up near Tadfield this week,” Crowley says. “So all back roads.” It’s a lie, but obviously he can’t explain that he’d done over a hundred all the way up, including city roads, his mind racing faster than the car, his jaw clenched and foot pressing down so hard it had taken a miracle to bring the car to a stop at all.

“Oh. I was starting to think you weren’t coming. When you left, I half thought that we’d never see you again. There was something so...odd about that whole thing. None of us can really remember what happened...do you remember? We were out in that field, and then...we were driving back? Warlock got out of the car at one point, but he doesn’t even know why or if he saw anything out there.”

“Ah, no, I don’t know. Just a lot of sand. Probably best not to dwell on it,” Crowley says, in what he hopes is a soothing voice.

“I told Tad never again.” Harriet shakes her head as if clearing it, then smiles. “Anyway, Warlock is looking forward to seeing you,” Harriet says. “I’ll help you with your bags, and then we’ll find him.”

Crowley looks around the house, at the old-fashioned moulding around the fireplace, the large windows, thrown open against the heat, drapes tied back. He’d liked it here. It had been a good time, if it had felt a bit desperate at times, if he’d lived through it with a hollowness at his center. It had been a time in his life when he’d just unabashedly done good work, and he was proud of it. And now it was over, and Aziraphale was back and...

“I don’t have much,” he says, forcing himself to pay attention to Harriet. “I should be able to manage it.”

The room where Crowley had spent so many of his nights for the past eight years is nearly empty. There’s just a little bag by the door for show, which he’d left before they departed. He sits down on the bed and closes his eyes. It’s the only silence he’s had for days now, having studiously avoided it. He has the impulse to miracle himself away, back to London. None of it makes any difference, he thinks. The Dowlings are going back to the States. Aziraphale has sent Crowley away, and Crowley is finally alone. Completely alone. No one and nothing.

The funny thing is, if this had happened sooner—if Aziraphale had sent him away when they’d been together properly all those years ago, he would have been prepared for it, but now, having been separated from him, having thought he’d never see him again only to be met with his unexpected return, Crowley is unable to accept the dismissal. Aziraphale had shown him grace, before. Raising Warlock had let him find it again. Crowley had proven to himself that he still had it within him. That he could trust himself, that he could be worthy of love, of goodness.

He knows he didn’t deserve to be treated that way. He had been angry for a while, had felt justified in his anger.

But the anger hadn’t lasted. That isn’t even it anymore. It isn’t even just that he doesn’t understand. It’s the knowledge that he couldn’t have understood. That whatever it was that had caused Aziraphale to do that, to feel the way he did, it wasn’t something Crowley understood, and _Aziraphale hadn’t explained._ He must have been hurting, but he didn’t want Crowley’s help. Crowley had never thought this far ahead, not explicitly, but he supposes that if, before any of this had come to pass, there had been some hypothetical world in his mind where Aziraphale came back and they averted Armageddon and defied Heaven and Hell and got away with it and their freedom and dined at the Ritz and he showed Aziraphale his restored bookshop and they made love, that that vision would _not_ have ended with Aziraphale leaving their bed to press himself onto the narrow surface of his unmiracled couch, miracle himself out of consciousness, and, when roused, ask Crowley to leave in no uncertain terms and without explanation. He’d looked so small and sad, and when Crowley had reached for him, his shoulders had rounded and he’d hunched in on himself. Crowley’s throat clenches just remembering it; his eyes sting. Aziraphale had never looked like that, had never _flinched_ from him before, like he was afraid, not in six thousand years. No matter what had happened. Crowley can’t stop replaying it. Has only just managed to stop clinically replaying the sex over and over, analyzing his every motion and touch, his words, even the way he’d moved, the sounds he’d made. It had been a little odd, yes. But he’d thought…he hadn’t pressured Aziraphale. Hadn’t done anything to push him in any particular direction, had tried to let him set the pace, do what he felt. And Aziraphale had been very active. Had seemed quite engaged. Had Crowley been too unenthusiastic (he didn’t think so—he’d tried to put on a bit of a show for Aziraphale, tried to show him how good he made him feel)? Had he been inattentive? Should he have refused to go to bed with him until he’d been back for a few days, a week, a year? Well, _now_ he can see that maybe he should have, or that maybe they should have talked about it a bit more, about what Aziraphale wanted. But he still doesn’t really know. Refusing or interrogating him about it might have hurt Aziraphale in a different way. ( _The things I want with you_ , he’d said. What the Hell was that about?) And he knows it’s futile to go over and over this, blaming himself for failing Aziraphale somehow when the issue might not even be _him_ , but how is he supposed to resolve this when Aziraphale couldn’t even speak at the suggestion that Crowley might come back to the bookshop? No, he can’t go to him. Not for a long while, at least. He doesn’t have a mobile or even a landline. Crowley could write him a letter, but that seems ridiculous. And maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t read it. Maybe it would upset him. No, for now Crowley will just have to wait.

There’s a knock at the door, and whoever it is doesn’t wait, just throws the door open. Crowley is standing by the door by then, and Warlock throws himself at Crowley, not even looking at his face first, not seeing that he’d been trying not to cry.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Warlock says.

“I’ll miss you too, dear,” Crowley says, resting a hand on his head. “We’ll have to visit. All right?”

“Can we?” Warlock says.

Once upon a time, Crowley never would have suggested it. Would have been ashamed to want it, would have believed he didn’t deserve it.

But when he leaves that day, he gives his address to Harriet. The address in Mayfair. “Throw out the other one,” he says, of the bookshop address. “I’m not there anymore.” He promises to stay in touch, and means it.

He had thought, when he left, that maybe he’d stay out of London for a while, just a few days, in case Aziraphale changes his mind and tries to find him. But it’s so quiet out here, and the Bentley has the unhelpful habit of playing music that mirrors Crowley’s emotional state, and he doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be out here like this, alone, driving. His flat is private, and it’s his, and he can go there and sleep and do whatever else he needs to do to distract himself. Like control the sound system. So that’s where he goes.

* * *

He’s there. Aziraphale. Crowley can tell it before he sees him. His heart thuds hopefully, even as his anger reawakens. But neither emotion prepares him for the way the angel looks, leaning against his door, eyes pressed closed as if concentrating on something, hands gripped in each other.

“Aziraphale?”

“Oh! There you are, my dear.” He reaches out, starts for Crowley, then stops, his hands fluttering. He stares at Crowley.

“Let’s go inside,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to miracle open the door himself, or stand aside to let Crowley open it.

“Aziraphale?”

“I’m so sorry, my dear, my dearest.” He doesn’t look at Crowley, except with the last, _dearest_ ; it comes out like a plea, and his eyes lock on Crowley’s then, or on his sunglasses anyway, before they sweep over the Ashtoreth clothes. Aziraphale swallows visibly.

“Let’s go inside,” Crowley repeats. “We can talk inside.”

Aziraphale seems to realize he’s blocking the way, then, and he steps to the side, muttering apologetically until Crowley, unthinkingly, presses a hand to his arm and Aziraphale stills. He didn’t flinch, Crowley realizes, seems calmer at the touch, if anything. But he still shouldn’t have touched him. He shouldn’t have. He withdraws his hand.

“Tea?” Crowley says, as they walk into the flat. “Cocoa?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, I don’t think...I, Crowley?”

“Want to sit down at least?”

Aziraphale smiles; a quick thing, there and gone, leaving his brows drawn together. He sits. Crowley sits next to him, leaving a couple of feet of space between them, his body turned to face Aziraphale. Aziraphale faces forward, looking down at his lap, and folds his hands together in his lap.

“I was very rude to you,” he says. “Crowley, I’m...I’m afraid I hurt you.”

Crowley doesn’t reply.

“I _am_ sorry. I never meant...I was having a bit of trouble, sorting through my thoughts. All of this is so sudden. So unexpected. A bit too...too fast for me, Crowley. I think I just needed some time on my own.”

Aziraphale raises his eyes to Crowley; he looks hopeful. Crowley lets the side of his mouth curl upwards.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Will you forgive me? Can you? I do want us to spend time together. I’m so sorry. I was _awful_.”

“Of course I forgive you,” Crowley says. “Oh, angel, of course.”

Aziraphale’s smile is radiant, his eyes wet, but his face is glowing with relief. For a moment, Crowley forgets everything else. He wants to reach for him, hug him. But then he remembers.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Did I do something to make you not want...me to touch you? You can tell me. Whatever it is.”

“No. No. You’re wonderful. You’re always so _good_ to me. I...behaved _abominably_.” And the smile is gone. Aziraphale’s face is wobbling, crumpling, even as Crowley can see he’s trying to keep it still, to be brave. Crowley does reach for him now, holds him gently, featherlight, not pulling, not pressing, so Aziraphale could pull away without the slightest effort. There is no joy in him, Crowley realizes. No joy in his angel. Crowley feels like ash, like he could be blown away with the slightest breath.

“Don’t. I forgive you,” Crowley says. It comes out as a whisper. “I forgive you. Everything is OK now, angel. It’s OK.”

Aziraphale nods. He does pull away; not rudely, not forcefully, but as if to assert that he’s recovered. He smiles at Crowley. Crowley takes off his glasses and sets them on the table. Aziraphale looks nervous. No, no, Crowley hadn’t meant to make him nervous. He’d meant the opposite, wanted to let Aziraphale see his eyes, let him know he meant it, that it was OK. So he looks away, not wanting Aziraphale to misunderstand the gesture, which had often preceded sex.

“Wine?” he says. He snaps his fingers to get rid of the stupid hat and scratchy hose, replacing them with a black henley and jeans. “And maybe...we could watch a movie or something?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale says, eagerly. “Although I’m afraid I don’t know—what exactly _is_ a _movie_?”


	14. Shadow or Song (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hides his fears and doubts as he gets acquainted with the modern world and makes a new friend. 
> 
> Crowley tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “He skips through the copses singing,  
> And his shadow dances along,  
> And I know not which I should follow,  
> Shadow or song!”
> 
> —from “In the Forest” by Oscar Wilde
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.
> 
> * * *
> 
> cw: negative self-talk, anxious rumination.

For two days they sit in Crowley’s flat, watching films and sipping wine and talking. They don’t get drunk, just drink to enjoy the wine. Aziraphale lets himself sip slowly from a glass, trying not to feel guilty at the indulgence. Crowley doesn’t try to touch him. Aziraphale is grateful, though he misses it. Better not push it, he thinks. Better not ask for something and then not be able to bear it. So he doesn’t sit too close. Doesn’t do more than hold Crowley’s hand, which makes the demon smile. He studies the films, trying to learn what’s changed since he’s been gone.

On the third day, Crowley takes him out. They find a tailor, who measures Aziraphale and asks him to select colors and style. Crowley helps him with the modern styling, though Aziraphale rejects the idea of anything too trendy. They choose tan and sand-colored three-piece suits, blue and white shirts. Aziraphale rejects dove gray. He’d liked it once, but now he can only think of Gabriel when he sees it, and he would really rather not. He holds Crowley’s arm in the street, and no one stops them. It makes Crowley smile, too, which feels nice. Aziraphale ignores the stares. He supposes they do look odd together. More so now even, than they had before, with Crowley in his tight trousers, and that _hair_. People sometimes smile at them. Sometimes still seem drawn to him, as if he makes them happy just by being near. That feels good, and he can’t help but return those smiles, that goodwill. So different from how they responded to him in Heaven.

Crowley takes him next into a bright, spare looking store with a bitten apple on the window.

“What is _this_?” Aziraphale says. He frowns. “Oh, _Crowley_ , you have been busy.”

“It’s not me,” Crowley says, grinning. “Did it all on their own.”

Crowley goes straight to a table and buys Aziraphale a small, slim tablet in gold and white. An iPhone. The woman who makes the sale smiles at them, questions in her eyes. She can see it, Aziraphale thinks, the love between them. He can feel the love in her heart, and it’s a relief because it’s real, and it has nothing to do with Crowley, and he doesn’t have to question it. He blesses her before they leave, makes sure her life will be filled with love always.

He leans into Crowley as they leave, feels his long arm come up around him, strong and gentle.

Crowley looks down into his face, wonder etched into his angular features. Aziraphale did that. He smiles at Crowley, glad.

“You want to go back to mine?” Crowley says. “Or—”

“Dinner?” Aziraphale suggests. “Then, yes. Back to yours, I think. If it’s all right?” He doesn’t want to be alone. It’s easier this way, and maybe they can prolong this delicate bliss.

“Course it is,” Crowley says. “Where to?”

“Your choice,” Aziraphale says. “You do know what I like. After all, I hardly know what’s still here.”

Crowley takes him to Rules. Aziraphale embraces him in the street, the demon’s face going slack with astonishment.

“You—” Crowley starts, shaking his head.

“No, _you_ ,” Aziraphale says. He kisses his cheek, so glad it’s allowed now; no one can stop him. “I can’t believe it’s still here.”

Crowley laughs, his smile wide and unabashed. His hands rest on Aziraphale’s arms, and he looks exhilarated, incredulous. He looks like an idiot, a perfect, beautiful, lovely idiot.

_It has to be real. It has to._

* * *

After, they go back to Crowley’s. Crowley shows him how the phone works, the things he can do with it. Aziraphale lets him, but it seems more like patience than interest, which Crowley feels is confirmed when he says, “well, that’s about it,” and Aziraphale sets the phone on the coffee table, face down, muttering distractedly about the implications of the _internet_ and _social media_.

“Ingenious,” he says. “But the sheer _scope_...the pitfalls will be equally _enormous_ , I’m sure.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley says, shrugging. “But now we can send each other messages. Ring each other. So if I’m away, you won’t have to wait outside my flat without knowing when I’m coming back. And I can ask you if I can...if we can talk. If we, if...”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale frowns. “We can _always_ talk. We can always...I don’t want to be without you. We can always...I _hope_ we can always fix things. If things go wrong. Again.”

“Sorry,” Crowley says. They’d been happy. Aziraphale had been happy. Why had he gone and brought it up again? He pulls his knees up, collapsing against the back of the sofa. “You don’t have to have the mobile if you don’t want it,” he says. “Don’t want to make you do anything. Just thought.”

“No, no. It’s lovely. I like it very much, as I believe I’ve said. And it’s sure to come in useful.”

Crowley nods.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, careful.

“Hmm?” Crowley pours wine, pushes the glass over to Aziraphale.

“You don’t have to...if you want to sleep? I’m afraid I’m tiring you out.”

“I don’t _need_ to sleep, Aziraphale.”

“But if you’d like to. Please don’t think I can’t entertain myself. Perhaps...perhaps I ought to go to the bookshop.”

“Only if you want to,” Crowley says. “You can stay at mine. As long as you like.”

“You’re very _kind_ ,” Aziraphale says, not looking at him. Crowley sits up and moves closer, takes his arms, carefully pulling apart his hands, holding them. He moves his thumbs over them, stroking gently. Aziraphale’s mouth opens, closes, something pained skittering over his face and vanishing just as quickly.

“I _care_ about you,” he says, frowning at the look that crosses Aziraphale’s face at his words. “That’s not kindness.”

* * *

Aziraphale does return to the shop. He even posts hours and sells a few customers some of the awful books Crowley had stocked. (He is a wily, clever thing.)

“So I supposed I might as well get the hard copy,” one customer, a soft-spoken young man, says. “I mean, the e-book wasn’t any cheaper. And Kindles being what they are. In my hands at least...”

The woman with him rolls her eyes. She is dressed in a way that is both normal and unusual—out of place now, but more or less what Aziraphale would have expected a young woman to wear, if he hadn’t been back nearly two weeks now, long enough to know better. The woman looks around the shop before speaking. She had been doing that, casting her eyes around as if expecting ambush. It puts Aziraphale on edge.

“E-books are a _travesty_ ,” she says, distractedly, revealing an American accent. “Your hands aside.”

Aziraphale nods politely. He has no idea what they’re talking about. He will have to ask Crowley. He will go to the flat that evening, most likely. They’ve been doing that. Aziraphale going there. It seems right, somehow, after he’d made Crowley leave the shop. Anyway, it’s soothing to be there. Nothing bad has ever happened in Crowley’s flat.

“Actually...I was wondering something,” the woman says to Aziraphale.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, uncertainly. The woman leans in, lowering her voice.

“Do you sell books of prophecy?”

“I _stock_ books of prophecy,” Aziraphale says. “Whether or not I _sell_ them, I’m afraid, depends on, well, a number of factors.” He hands the book, by someone called Stephen King, to the young man and comes back around the counter, leading them to the books on prophecy. “Right this way, if you’d like to have a look. Only I must insist that you don’t touch anything. These books are rather old and delicate. First editions, you understand.”

“Actually,” the woman says. “I’ve one I’d like to sell to you. If you’d be interested in acquiring it.”

* * *

*Message sent with gentle effect.*

_My dearest Crowley,_

_A young woman by the rather extraordinary name of Anathema Device is in my shop. She is in possession of the only known copy of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, which suggests to me that she is not mistaken when she says that she is acquainted with you, or rather, with Ashtoreth. She says she got this address from someone called Harriet Dowling. That it was “listed” as your address? I don’t mind. Only I am curious. Would you like to see her? Would you like to come here? (I am so terribly sorry I implied you might not be welcome. It haunts me. Please know that I did not mean it.) She’s here now. Or perhaps we two could meet here later tonight, if you’d prefer not to see her? (She does seem a bit odd.) Assuming you’d like to meet tonight at all. If not, that’s fine, too. There is no obligation, of course._

_Is this all right, this kind of “text” message? Or is it better if I “ring”?_

_All my love,_

_Aziraphale_

* * *

_You don’t have to sign a text, my clever angel_

_Is she waiting for me there?_

_I’ll explain about the address_

* * *

_Oh. All right._

_No, she doesn’t know I’ve written to you._

*Message sent with gentle effect.*

_It’s perfectly all right about the address. I have always thought of this space as ours, and I know you kept the place up for me in my absence. I will never cease to marvel at your kindness._

* * *

“Are you _texting_?” Anathema Device says. She sounds incredulous.

“Oh, I’m very sorry!” Aziraphale says, embarrassed. That was rude. The features had been so interesting, so distracting. “Terribly sorry, my dear. Were you saying something?”

“I was asking you if Ash was coming back.”

“I...don’t know.” There must have been something on his face he hadn’t meant to show, because Anathema softened, looked over at the young man.

“We used to work together,” Anathema adds. “All three of us. Not closely. But it would be nice to see her.”

Aziraphale looks down at his mobile.

_I don’t want to see her like this. I’d have to do the whole Ash thing and I really don’t want to deal with that now. You can give her my mobile number. I put it in your phone. Remember how to find it?_

Aziraphale hesitates. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he says, finally. “Ash won’t be joining, I’m afraid. But you could give her a call?”

Anathema nods. She enters the number into her phone as Aziraphale reads it out to her.

“Now,” he says. “I am very interested in hearing more about this book, and its provenance, if you would be so kind.”

* * *

_Ours._ Crowley pulls up to the bookshop at dinnertime, looking up at it. _Ours. I have always thought of this space as ours._ God, Crowley had been a right idiot a hundred years ago, hadn’t he? Always imagining that Aziraphale was ready to send him away

Even so, it doesn’t completely drive away the chill he feels approaching the shop, where only days ago Aziraphale _had_ sent him away. Had looked at him like he _was_ unwelcome in his shop, like he was an interloper. So it’s not as jarring as it might have been when he saunters into the shop, only to be immediately assailed.

“You!” Anathema shouts. She’s on her feet, pointing. Newt looks uncomfortable on the couch, and Aziraphale, in his chair, looks flustered.

“This is Crowley,” he tries. Crowley feels him pushing calmness into the room. On the couch, Newt gives a little sigh of relief at it, but Anathema takes longer to be affected.

“ _Ash!_ ” she exclaims, looking vindicated. Then suddenly, she presses a hand to her mouth. “Oh. Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“ ’S fine,” Crowley says. “Just call me Crowley now. Sit down. Drink your tea.”

Newt certainly needs no instruction. He gulps down his tea.

There’s an awkward silence.

“It’s just…” Anathema tries. “I kind of thought you’d be gone now. I came here because I wanted to see. And then I found this...all these old books. And I thought maybe I could get rid of it. But I wanted to see you. To see if...would you take off your glasses?”

Crowley hesitates.

“His eyes,” Aziraphale begins, clearly about to fabricate some excuse.

“Angel,” Crowley says. Anathema’s eyes widen. Crowley takes them off.

“See?” she says to Newt. “And he—” she gestures to Aziraphale. “You called him _angel_.”

“Anathema, I don’t think that means—” Newt begins.

“It does,” she says. She looks at Crowley again. “But you’re not evil.”

“No,” the other three say together.

“That’s not what _demon_ means,” Aziraphale says. “And _angel_ certainly doesn’t mean good.”

* * *

Anathema had told Aziraphale a long, multigenerational epic that had begun with what he already knew—Agnes Nutter and tales of her witchery and explosion, the handoff of the book to her descendants, but then she’d filled in more, going through the years of her family, the subsequent handoffs, the piling on of expectations. She’d shown him her name in the book, her very existence both foreseen and called into reality by it. He’d seen something there, a pride, yes, as she explained how she’d spent her whole life studying the book, training for a future in diplomacy to serve the family that would be at the center of the world’s end. To guide them into position, to where they’d need to be to ensure a future for everything. Newt, the young man beside her, certainly looked impressed. He didn’t speak much, and the slightly gobsmacked look he’d worn the whole time he’d been in the shop did not leave his face. Her story went on so long that it started to grow dark outside, and yet, Aziraphale could tell that there was something she wasn’t saying, something sad, something hidden behind the hard expression she wore, something buried beneath the pride. He paid Anathema twice what she asked for the book before she’d even finished her story.

It caught him off guard when Crowley entered. He’d lost track of the time. After Anathema had her realization about Crowley and Ash, after the two of them were outed as celestials, and had sworn the humans to secrecy ( _Really, who would believe us anyway_ , Anathema had said, after explaining that she’d known already, that the book had foretold their involvement in the events of Armageddon.), he and Crowley had gone for a nighttime walk, had sat in St. James Park for a while, leaning against each other on a bench as they had never dared do before. After, they went to Crowley’s flat, watched a film together and ate curry Crowley bought them from a restaurant on the way back. Crowley slept that night, while Aziraphale read on the sofa, making his way through popular new books: that Stephen King, a series called Harry Potter, some terrible thing called _Angels and Demons_ by someone called Dan Brown.

It does not, however, catch him at all off guard when Anathema returns to his shop a few days later. He’d seen that expression. The searching, the need, the sadness. He can still do this, he thinks. He is a terrible angel, perhaps, by some standards. But he has never been lacking in this regard. He knows when he is needed.

She wanders the shop, then approaches him. “May I see some of your books of prophecy?” she asks. “I promise I’ll be careful. I’m...not interested in purchasing any.”

At this last statement, Aziraphale lets out the breath he’d been holding since she made her initial request. He finds a set of gloves for her, situates her at a table in his back room, and though he doubts she needs it, he shows her the correct way to turn the pages without tearing them, and leaves her to it. As it grows dark in the evening, he is reluctant to disturb her, so he texts Crowley.

_I’m afraid I’m still at the shop. Miss Device is here again._

Anathema does not stir when Crowley comes. Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s cheek, presses a bag of pastries into his hands, and says he will go back to his flat. He doesn’t want to go upstairs, Aziraphale realizes. Because upstairs is only the bed. He doesn’t have things for them to do the way Crowley does. There’s just the flat with the bed and the backroom, but Anathema is in there. But Crowley doesn’t seem upset or jealous, so Aziraphale nods and thanks him for the pastries, and steps outside, since Crowley has not come in. He wraps his arms around Crowley and doesn’t let him go, not right away. He wants to tell him he loves him, but the words won’t come. Every time he thinks them, he wonders if Crowley would want to hear them, if Crowley really cares that Aziraphale loves him. He has not said he loves Aziraphale. He wonders again if it’s real.

“My angel,” Crowley says, kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yes, I’m not open tomorrow,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll come to yours early.”

* * *

They watch _Shakespeare in Love_ and chortle at the inaccuracies. It’s good fun though, Aziraphale agrees. Aziraphale tries sushi and finds it delightful. Crowley turns off Netflix and opens a little cabinet.

“Want to watch some classic films?” he says. “ ’Fraid I missed most of these years myself. Sleeping, you know.” He shrugs, looking down and away.

“You were so very brave when it counted,” Aziraphale says.

“Not as brave as you,” Crowley says. Aziraphale tries not to think about this.

Crowley sets down a stack of what he’s called DVDs between them on the couch. _Casablanca_ , _Vertigo_ , _Strangers on a Train_ , _On the Waterfront_.

“Am I to take your ownership of these as an endorsement of their quality?” Aziraphale says.

“They’re all right,” Crowley smiles. “Not everything is on streaming, and streaming hasn’t been around forever. But I thought you might like these. I think you’d like _Casablanca_. Hitchcock is a little...well, I don’t know. You might...might like it. Actually.” He pulls out one from further down in the stack. _Shadow of a Doubt_. Aziraphale studies it, the soft, sweet-looking young woman on the cover, the broad-faced man, clearly a villain. “This one’s his best.”

“Hitchcock,” Aziraphale repeats. “Well, we can watch whatever you think is best, my dear.” Crowley raises a hand, hovering it lightly over Aziraphale’s head hesitantly. Finally he lets it land there, lets his fingers slide through Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale’s heart speeds up. He sighs. Crowley’s smile is wistful. He removes his hand and stands up with the DVDs, fiddles with the player for a moment, then comes back to the couch. Aziraphale moves closer to him, leaning into him. He understands why Crowley is hesitant, but he wishes it wasn’t so. He’s suddenly swept with a wave of love, welling up inside of him and overflowing. He doesn’t look for an answering flash of it from Crowley. He hasn’t let himself, doesn’t want to think about it. He presses a kiss to Crowley’s jaw and feels him shiver. On the screen, black and white figures dance to a horrible, swelling tune.

Crowley’s arm tightens around Aziraphale. It’s not the first time they’ve cuddled on the couch, but there’s something different there tonight. When Crowley speaks, his voice is so soft Aziraphale doesn’t register it as speech at first; it’s just a gentle rustling, a frisson in the air, overlaying the music.

“I want to kiss you,” Crowley says, not looking at him. “Want to kiss you properly.” Aziraphale can see his jaw working as he speaks, the way the tension seizes in his neck as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing.

Aziraphale runs his fingers over it, watches Crowley’s lips part.

“You can, you know,” he says. “I’d like that very much.”

Crowley turns. All Aziraphale can see is his skin, then his sharp face, his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s lips, and their lips meet, opening into each other, soft. Their tongues meet, too. Gentle, not probing, just touching, sliding together a moment. It’s not enough. But Crowley stops it, clutching Aziraphale to him. Crowley kisses his head. Aziraphale feels melted. He lets Crowley hold him up.

“You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?” Aziraphale whispers, finally. “Always so sweet to me.” He hears Crowley’s breath catch. But he only strokes Aziraphale’s arm a little harder, kneading the flesh. It feels good, but _oh,_ there’s a kind of dull pinch there, not in his _body_ exactly, but... Aziraphale feels Sandalphon’s club against his skin, _beneath_ his skin, and shudders. Crowley looks down at him, face tight, uncovered eyes wide with alarm.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale says. “I’m all right. Just...a little cold.”

He doesn’t pull away from Crowley, and eventually, Crowley relaxes again. The room grows slightly warmer.

The movie is, well, disturbing. Lots of doubt (much more than a shadow); lots of uncertainty. And the young heroine has no one to confide in, no one who knows the truth of her fears except the object of them.

When it ends, Crowley yawns. Aziraphale kisses his cheek.

“What did you think?” Crowley asks, grinning. He looks tired. He will retire soon, leaving Aziraphale alone with his thoughts. He does not, think, somehow that Harry Potter’s struggles in his quest to win the Triwizard Cup will be sufficient distraction after everything this night has stirred—the doubts, the memories, the feelings and sensations...If Crowley leaves him alone, it might become too much; he might leave. Crowley might wake and find him gone and think...no, his mind was already becoming a maelstrom. Crowley was ever so patient with him. Perhaps...

“Could I come to bed with you?” Aziraphale says suddenly. Crowley’s eyes narrow, his mouth twists as he scrambles for words. There’s a new distance between them, the air pressing in cold where Crowley’s warm body had been just moments before. “Just to sleep! Oh, my darling, I’m sorry, just to sleep. If that’s all right.”

But Crowley’s nodding, reaching for him. Aziraphale lets the warmth encircle him again. Crowley’s broad, flat chest, the strong frame of his body.

“I—yes, _yes_. Anything, Aziraphale. You know that, don’t you?” A kiss to his temple. “Anything, always.”

* * *

Crowley doesn’t sleep that night. He’d expected to, but he hadn’t expected Aziraphale to ask to. Hadn’t expected Aziraphale to want to lie beside him in bed, to want to sleep. And now that he’s here, Crowley can’t take his eyes off him, afraid to wake up and find him gone again.

But in bed, Aziraphale doesn’t touch him, doesn’t curl his body around Crowley’s, doesn’t even kiss him good night.

Crowley watches him, the way his body curls up when he sleeps, his knees pulling toward his chest like he needs to protect himself. It’s new, not how he’d slept before, on the rare occasions he had done. He watches the way his face knits itself up, like he’s fighting a nightmare, like he’d looked when Crowley had kneaded his arm, like he’d looked weeks ago, when he’d apologized and Crowley had touched his hands to reassure him. Crowley didn’t know what it meant. And Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about it.

Aziraphale had let Crowley kiss him. And he was affectionate, liberal with his touches, even in public. He’d never pulled away from Crowley again, since that first night. But there was never anything suggestive about the things he did. Except that he’s here in Crowley’s bed. Except that tongue against Crowley’s, that _You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?_ whispered in his ear, the ghost of his earlier kiss still skating along Crowley’s jawline. Aziraphale _said_ things like that. Aziraphale said things like that during sex. Or sometimes just before. Or he’d used to. He _had_ to know how the current of it would flow down the length of Crowley, lighting him up, making him go hard and aching with want. Didn’t he?

Or had it just been like all his unflagging praise for Crowley’s _kindness_. As if everything Crowley did was about Crowley, and not about Aziraphale. _I care about you_ , Crowley had told him, when Aziraphale had called him kind. And maybe the truth was somewhere in the middle, but that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Aziraphale had looked doubtful—there was a moment there when he had. Or maybe it was the touch to his hands he hadn’t liked; maybe it had seemed imbued with desire even when Crowley had only been trying to soothe.

 _Only to sleep. If it’s all right._ Aziraphale had said, when he’d asked to lie here beside Crowley tonight. What _wasn’t_ he saying? Crowley sighs, pushes himself up to sitting. He can’t lie here and obsess about this all night. He’ll drive himself crazy. He picks up his phone, miracles his airpods into place. Despite missing most of the twentieth century, Crowley has developed a love for classic rock, for Queen and the Velvet Underground and the Cure.

* * *

Perhaps it is the return to London’s typical overcast state that causes it. Perhaps it is something else. Crowley looks at him hungrily sometimes now. He sees it. Perhaps Aziraphale even encourages it. Crowley is so beautiful, his skin so warm to the touch, his body so strong and firm under Aziraphale’s hands. He is so hard for Aziraphale to resist, and Aziraphale does not always try.

They walk home from lunch one fall afternoon when the sky opens up, Crowley opening an umbrella and leaning close, wrapping his hands around Aziraphale’s when he attempts to take it from him and hold it for both of them.

“Remember the first time we did this?” Crowley says. Of course Aziraphale remembers. Aziraphale thinks of shielding him in Eden. Remembers that baffled smile. That flaming hair in the sun, so artfully arranged. He remembers thinking of it when he’d been in Heaven, too, wondering about himself, about why he’d been so drawn in, so tempted right from the start by Crowley’s vibrancy and apparent innocuousness. He _would_ have seemed harmless, he’d reminded himself when he thought of it then, when he’d believed he’d never see him again. And now? What’s different, really? Well, in one sense, perhaps everything, but in another…

Crowley smiles at him. “Always knew you were special,” he says.

 _Special._ Did he mean foolish? Easy to manipulate? Corrupted? Was that what Crowley had seen in him in Eden? Aziraphale looks away. There’s a hand on his back, resting gently between his shoulders, just briefly.

“Angel?”

“I’m not, though, am I? An angel? Not really?”

Crowley stops, right there on the street. He takes a deep breath, meets Aziraphale’s eyes. “Does it bother you?” he says, seriously. “When I call you that?”

“No, of course not, my dear. I’m sorry. I’m...being silly again.”

“I can stop calling you that if you like.”

“No, don’t. Please don’t.”

A hand on the back of his head. Aziraphale wants it to be comforting. He wants it so terribly. Lips on his forehead, pressing a kiss there. A flash of love. Familiar, beautiful. How can he doubt Crowley? How can he fail even for a moment to appreciate him?

_You don’t know love when you feel it. It’s here, in Heaven, with God and the Host. It wasn’t there on Earth with a demon. If that doesn’t tally with what you feel, then what you feel is wrong._

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. He’s beautiful. He can’t see the other thing, no matter how hard he looks. _Demon_ , yes, of course. Only sort of true now, but still. _Tempter_ —if Aziraphale wants to be tempted. But he always has. Crowley tilts his head toward him a little, beneath the umbrella, like he’s trying to hear better, even though Aziraphale hasn’t said anything. Something lurches inside of him. He loves Crowley, loves him so much. Only...

_You’re just wrong, Aziraphale. I don’t understand how you can just be so wrong about everything._

_Everything._

How can he trust himself? He’s already hurt Crowley once with his foolish doubt. And it won’t go away.

“I think maybe...I’d better go back to the bookshop,” he says. Crowley’s face tightens, like he’s holding back, but he nods.

Now Aziraphale has done it again.

“Right,” Crowley says. “I’ll drop you off, then?”

Aziraphale nods, feeling guilty. “Just for the afternoon,” he says. But he doesn’t look at Crowley. Instead he looks at his feet, at the new tan leather getting damp. His feet have begun to ache, too, the pain spreading up his legs, his arms, and back, into his hands, wrapped around Crowley’s on the umbrella. They’d hurt once before since he’d been back, when Crowley had held them, just after Aziraphale apologized for sending him away after they’d made love.

“Bother,” he whispers.

Crowley frowns. _He’s already getting frustrated with me,_ Aziraphale thinks. _He’s losing patience._

But it doesn’t matter. Aziraphale will do whatever Crowley wants, he decides. He’s all Aziraphale has, and he loves Crowley, can’t lose him.

Crowley miracles Aziraphale’s feet dry without a word. Aziraphale doesn’t even notice it until he’s at the bookshop, darting from the cover of the umbrella inside. But it’s too late to thank him, Crowley has put the umbrella away and is already sliding into the Bentley.

* * *

Anathema comes by that evening, just before tea. She’s got a box in her arm and she marches straight up to the deserted counter and waits until Aziraphale comes up to her.

“Hello, my dear,” he says. “Another...sale?” He peers eagerly at the box, rubbing his hands together slightly, feigning more anticipation than he can feel.

“Perhaps,” she says, coy. “I...want to show it to you, but I’m not sure yet.”

Aziraphale’s curiosity, previously merely hoped for, now springs into full force.

“Of course,” he says. Anathema hesitates. The shop door bangs open, causing Aziraphale to feel jolted, to frown as a group of young people enter, dressed rather showily in an odd combination of tweed and argyle and leather. One of the young women has blue hair. More importantly, one of the young men is pontificating loudly, gesturing in a way that doesn’t bode well for anything around him. Aziraphale starts to open his mouth, to speak to them rather sharply, but one of the others spots him, nudges the offender, giggling. The young man rolls his eyes. But he lowers his voice at least. Enough that Aziraphale returns to ignoring them even when they avoid the displays at the front and duck into the poetry section.

“Maybe we could go to the back room?” Anathema suggests. Aziraphale nods, waving Anathema after him. He can still hear the hushed voices of the young people, can still make out that authoritative tone. He pictures the young man in a few years, flanked by three others, making pronouncements, frowning down at someone younger, smaller, not as well connected. He wants to stand up and tell him to leave his shop.

“Aziraphale?” Anathema says. “If this is a bad time—”

“Not at all, my dear girl.” he rests his fingers on her sleeve. “You were saying?”

Anathema takes one of the chairs in front of the little round table in the corner. Aziraphale takes the other, and starts the tea kettle with a thought. Anathema studies him.

“I need...advice,” she says.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “I consider myself quite expert in all matters relating to books and prophecies.”

“Do you? Well, what if I’m asking about...other matters.”

Aziraphale frowns slightly. Anathema’s fingers curl around the corners of the still unopened box. Her hands are young and delicate and strong. He looks down at his own, at the masked damage. The injury that only he knows is there. He forces the thought away and looks up at her. Anathema’s expression is oddly furtive, as if she’s about to discuss classified state matters. Aziraphale remembers that she recently left a position with an ambassador.

“Dear girl—”

“How long have you known Crowley?” she says. “Would you want him the same way, do you think, if you didn’t have a choice in the matter?”

What? Why on earth would she ask him such a thing? Aziraphale allows his face to look affronted. But beneath that, the questions linger. _Did_ he have a choice? Aziraphale wonders. Had he ever had a choice in the matter? Did angels truly have choices? He’d never come to any clear resolution on that. Anathema is frowning at him, seeming to realize that her question might not have landed quite the way she’d intended.

“It’s just,” she says, now drawing the lid of the box up, and open, but still facing her, so Aziraphale can't see. “Newt was in the first book. Everything was. And now…” she opens the lid all the way, turns the box to face Aziraphale.

Inside is another book, or rather, a set of unbound pages. _The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the World that Is to Come: Ye Saga Continues_.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale breathes. “Oh, Miss Device.”

* * *

_Crowley, I’m ever so sorry, but Anathema came by again this evening with the most marvelous specimen. And the poor girl seems in need of a talk. Too late for dinner, I think, but I could come round once we’ve done with our chat._

* * *

_It’s all right._

_You know you don’t HAVE to come by every night if you don’t want to._

* * *

When Anathema leaves, Aziraphale feels very alone. He doesn’t know how to respond to Crowley. He’d felt, when talking to Anathema, that he could understand her perspective quite well, that he could relate to wanting to be free. And he _should_ be free, should feel it, but he doesn’t. If he had a choice in the matter, he would, of course, want Crowley still. He thinks of going to Crowley, eating dinner. Perhaps discussing a trip to the theater—they had always enjoyed that. But then he picks up his mobile, and there’s _that_.

He’s done it, then. It’s too late. Crowley is tired of him. Aziraphale won’t bother him then. They will grow apart. In a thousand years they won’t recognize each other. Aziraphale feels hollow. What does he have to offer Crowley, really? How could he convince the demon of what he does not believe, that he should stay, should indulge Aziraphale?

Or. He picks up his phone.

 _I do want to_ , he types.

The reply comes instantly.

_It’s whatever you want, angel_

Aziraphale stares at it. Before, when Crowley had said things like this, it had felt like he was offering Aziraphale the world. Now it feels like he doesn’t care. Had it always been that way, and Aziraphale had just seen what he wanted?

Aziraphale doesn’t think about it, he just lets the feeling overtake him. He sits on his couch, drinking wine and ignoring the tears sliding down his face. He goes upstairs when the bottle is done and sits on his bed. The last time he was in it had been with Crowley, the last time they had made love. Dear, beautiful Crowley. Aziraphale had hurt him. He had trusted Aziraphale, had given him what he’d asked for, and Aziraphale had treated him terribly, as if it were his fault that Aziraphale wanted him and hated himself for it. Aziraphale runs his fingers over the brocaded bedspread. Crowley had made this; it had been his miracle. They had been so happy all those years ago, the two of them, frantic and dizzy with what they’d discovered in each other.

Or had it only been Aziraphale? Had it been, perhaps not one-sided, exactly, but _different_ for the two of them? Had Crowley _loved_ him? Or had he felt something different? Had he wanted, or even needed, something else entirely? Aziraphale remembers his face when he’d suggested that Crowley groom his wings. He’d thought, at the time, that it might be soothing for Crowley if Aziraphale offered to groom his. He thought Crowley trusted him enough that the offer would be welcome, or at the very least understood, and he’d treasured the feeling even before he’d asked, but then Crowley had refused, and so Aziraphale had offered his own instead, had wanted to make himself vulnerable in that very particular way to show Crowley how deeply he loved and trusted him. He would have been honored for Crowley to trust him like that, but he wouldn’t push. Crowley had looked revolted, though. Horrified. Had Aziraphale misunderstood something, even then? The issue of essences...well, it made sense not to merge or touch them if Crowley really thought it was dangerous. But even that didn’t explain why he wouldn’t even want them to _look_. Why didn’t he want to see Aziraphale? And what was it Crowley was hiding?

Aziraphale thinks again of the boys who’d discorporated him. Then of the two world wars. He’s done some reading on that subject, doesn’t see how Crowley could have really been at fault. He tries not to dwell on that. Can’t figure out how to ask without explaining how he knows—telling Crowley that Heaven had taunted him with the information (and then having to explain Heaven and what had happened there; to see Crowley’s reaction). Or how to raise the question without sounding like a hypocrite—after all, he hasn’t asked yet. He’d come back to Crowley knowing. Sort of. What position is he in to moralize if what Crowley had done was as bad as they said? And it _isn’t_. It _can’t_ be. It must have been an accident, a misunderstanding, or something where he hadn’t had any choice at all.

Aziraphale _knows_ that. But it doesn’t stop the questions from coming again and again.

No, if Aziraphale had misunderstood, it wasn’t his fault. Crowley had _told_ Aziraphale he loved him. What other way was there to take that?

Aziraphale knows love when he feels it. Whatever Gabriel said. He does. He felt it when Newt and Anathema had been here. Felt it from Newt, at least. Anathema was more complicated.

Crowley loves him, then. Aziraphale can be sure he does. Or did. At some point. But he’s ruined that now. Of course he has. Of course.

Without realizing how, Aziraphale finds that he is lying on the bed, staining the black and gold satin cover with his tears and his wine-soaked mouth, hiccuping slightly. His back aches. He’s a disgrace. An actual, literal disgrace. He takes a breath. Another. Sits up. All right then. He miracles himself sober.

It’s time to get a handle on things. How can he sit there and listen to Anathema, and say calming, bracing things to her, and then completely lose his very sanity over a text message? He is going to have to stop drinking alone. He is going to have to stop thinking of Heaven.

He could simply respond to the message and tell Crowley that what he would like is to come over. Or ask Crowley what he would prefer. Or telephone him and hear his voice, and run a lower risk of misunderstanding what his intentions had been.

He does none of this. Downstairs, he picks up his mobile, and does an internet search for Oscar Wilde. The next morning, he departs for Paris and Père Lachaise.

* * *

_Angel where are you?_

Crowley had gotten sushi and sake the night before, and put out a comedy he’d thought Aziraphale would like. Aziraphale had not come. Crowley had been hurt—he’d hoped whatever had happened under the umbrella that afternoon had been a fluke—things had been going so much better before that. Aziraphale had seemed willing to touch him, to welcome his touches. He kissed Crowley properly now, nearly every time they were together, and never pulled away or hesitated when Crowley leaned in to kiss him. Crowley was careful, he thought, not to push, not to crowd him. Perhaps Aziraphale hadn’t liked the reminder of Eden? He’d never minded it before, those kinds of reminders, but Heaven had done some sort of retraining, it seemed. They’d made him shy, ashamed about some things. But Crowley can’t figure out exactly _what_. Aziraphale had claimed he didn’t feel bad about the sex they’d had after their dinner at the Ritz, just “overwhelmed by all that had happened.” And that had seemed more than fair, in the circumstances. But it doesn’t change that he’d not let Crowley see his body, that he still tenses sometimes when Crowley touches him, occasionally won’t meet his eyes. Maybe they’d made him afraid of demons? Maybe he doesn’t like to be reminded that Crowley _is_ one? He never jokes about it anymore. And it would explain the eye avoidance. And why he had been uncomfortable after the sex, when Crowley’s eyes and tongue typically reverted. But it doesn’t explain the inconsistencies. He has no issue meeting Crowley’s uncovered eyes most of the time when they’re in the flat. Crowley supposes he will just have to keep being patient. Once he has a better sense of what to say, he’ll ask about it. But he doesn’t want to make Aziraphale feel as if he’s doing something wrong when he already seems so fragile and unsure.

Now it’s been almost twenty-four hours, and he hasn’t heard anything from Aziraphale since he’d said he wanted to come and then _not come_. And he hadn’t responded to Crowley’s text last night, doesn’t respond to Crowley’s text now, so Crowley, hating himself slightly, drives over to the bookshop in the rainy evening and finds it dark. He tries not to panic. He parks outside, leans forward over the steering wheel, feeling it dig into his chest. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He steels himself and starts to open the door, to get out, to find whatever it is he will find. If Aziraphale has been discorporated—

His phone chimes.

_Ran a bit of an errand. Back tomorrow. Very sorry if I’ve put you out, dear; only I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to come. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?_

_Bastard._ Crowley types. But he doesn’t send. He heaves a great sigh and deletes it. Types something else.

 _Of course it fucking matters you bloody idiot. My God I was so worried._ No. Delete.

 _Yeah, see you tomorrow, angel. Be safe._ He sends that one, then types some more.

 _I love you._ No. Delete. He’s not saying that. Doesn’t want to pressure him like that. ( _And what if Aziraphale doesn’t say it back?_ )

_You know I love you, right?_

Crowley doesn’t send that one either. Just turns his screen off and drives home.


	15. Shadow or Song (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale experience renewed intimacy, but not without missteps. I'm actually really sorry about this chapter, people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see cw at the end.
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.
> 
> * * *

Crowley doesn’t get dinner. He half feels like it will be jinxed or something if he does. Like God is watching and laughing at all of his botched attempts to fix whatever is wrong. Maybe throwing a wrench into the works herself, even. _You think you can stop my plan, well, then, I’ll stop all of yours._ They can just order in if Aziraphale comes. Sushi again, because he’d liked that. (Crowley throws out the meal he’d ordered before.) And yeah, he’ll come. He said he’d come. Of course he will.

In the end, Crowley can’t wait. He drives over to Aziraphale’s around the time Crowley expects he’d leave, and finds him there, locking the door like a human, and he’s whole and clean and perfect and humming a little. _Fuck,_ Crowley loves him. He sighs, smiling when he sees Crowley standing there, leaning against the car. Crowley lets him come closer, reaches out, lets Aziraphale step into the embrace so Crowley can make sure it’s wanted before he closes his arms around him.

“I found Oscar’s grave,” Aziraphale says, into his shoulder. Crowley pulls back enough to look at him. He doesn’t let go, and neither does Aziraphale.

“Yeah?”

“I did, yes. So I went to Paris. It was good to see it. To know that he was...appreciated. Eventually. It felt peaceful.” Aziraphale smiles up at Crowley, trailing his eyes over him. “Do you know there’s lipstick all over the grave? Apparently there were so many people kissing it that they had to build a barrier, and the people just kissed that instead.”

“Did they? Well, I think I’m going to kiss _you_ instead,” Crowley says, staring at Aziraphale’s neat pink mouth. Aziraphale smiles, the corners of his eyes going soft so Crowley knows it’s real. They kiss, Aziraphale’s lips move against Crowley’s. His breath is easy on Crowley’s face. There’s nothing there that shouldn’t be. When he thinks back on the moment later, he’s sure. It had been fine. “I’m glad for you. My clever angel. Found it all on your own, did you?” Crowley is still holding him, so he feels it, the moment it happens, just as always. Aziraphale stiffening, pulling back, his hands flying to each other, fingers lacing, arms across his chest.

The look on his face is hurt, ashamed. Crowley stares. _No, no._ What had happened?

“I’m not an _actual_ idiot, Crowley. You needn’t patronize.”

“What? No, Aziraphale? I’m impressed. You found it all on your own. Really. I mean, you only just learned about the internet and you’re already using it to plan a trip? And then actually _taking_ that trip. Successfully. You’ve got to see that that’s something. There’s humans can’t manage that, you know. People who’ve known about this stuff their whole lives.”

“I—very well.” Aziraphale leans forward and kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “I’m sorry I leapt to the wrong conclusion, then.”

“I know how clever you are,” Crowley says. “I wouldn’t make fun of you. Bit of teasing perhaps, but not like that. You know that, don’t you?”

Aziraphale nods; he looks a little surprised, eyes wide and blinking fast, like he’s waking up from something.

 _What happened, angel? What’s wrong?_ Crowley nearly says. But then Aziraphale smiles.

“Shall we, then?” he says, his eyes flickering toward the car, the road, as if he wants to get a move on. So Crowley opens the door for him, lets him in.

* * *

They order food. Crowley shows Aziraphale an app you can use to do it, and Aziraphale adds it to his mobile too, feeling a pleasant little sense of stated acquisitiveness when the download is complete, the cheery little app icon nestled neatly among the others on the screen of his mobile. Tonight Crowley suggests sushi and rice wine.

 _“_ Since you liked it so much,” Crowley says. Aziraphale feels stiff, his arms hurting too much to put them around Crowley. It gets worse at night, he’s noticing. Worse when he’s anxious, or sad, too. He’s not now, not sad or anxious. Or he wasn’t, until it started hurting again. He doesn’t want Crowley to think he’s avoiding him, but leaning against him the way he has been is actually quite uncomfortable. He winces, rather than move away and risk the misunderstanding. He can’t keep hurting Crowley. Trying his patience. He’d expected him to be angry when he went to Paris, went silent, but he hadn’t. And Aziraphale knew he should have told him he was going, or at least texted to let him know he’d be away. But Crowley had even forgiven him for snapping at him and being foolish again. When Crowley’s hand begins stroking his back, he’s grateful, seeing a way out of the pain. He shifts slightly, not out of his grasp, but turning so his back is toward him. Crowley’s hands move to his shoulders, his neck, squeezing gently. His hands are warm and strong. No one else has ever touched him this way. Kindly, gently, but with such care and depth of intention. Always as if it matters. Aziraphale closes his eyes, chasing the peace and gratitude that wash through him.

“This OK?” Crowley says, voice closer than Aziraphale had expected.

Aziraphale nods. He reaches up and takes off his bow tie, undoes his collar. Crowley’s breath catches, and he returns his hands to Aziraphale, letting them work their way down, kneading gently. Aziraphale relaxes into it.

“Thank you,” he says, as Crowley’s hands move to his neck, caressing the bare skin and pressing into the tendons there. “Oh, that’s very nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Aziraphale feels Crowley lean forward, his breath in his ear.

“Hello,” Crowley says in his ear. “Still good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes, my dearest.”

Crowley kisses his cheek. “Want to lie down.” His hands are making their way down Aziraphale’s arms. “Just to relax. Then we can watch another film. Food should be here soon.”

“All right— _oh, oh._ ” The last comes out like a little pinched shriek, as Crowley’s fingers continue to dig in, now hitting something that feels like a little spear embedded in him, and though Crowley lets go immediately at Aziraphale’s discomfort, Aziraphale rolls away, wincing, imagining worse pain that does not come. That will not come. It’s a reflex, and it leaves him horribly embarrassed. Of course Crowley wouldn’t hurt him deliberately. He wishes he hadn’t cried out, hadn’t moved like that, like some desperate animal. He feels ridiculous. He doesn’t want to look at Crowley now, but he makes himself.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, breathless. “Are you all right? Aziraphale? I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Crowley’s face is clenched, like he’s trying to stop it from crumpling. He seems to be struggling to speak. “Angel?”

“Crowley—” he begins, directing his eyes back to the floor. “Crowley, I’m...I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong, Aziraphale?” he says. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says, because how could he explain? “I…” he pauses.

“If it’s not that, then...?” Crowley says, then stops himself, taking a long breath. Aziraphale hesitates, frowning, confused, before Crowley goes on. “Do you not want me to—look, I have to just...we don’t have to do this, angel. All right? You were away a long time. I undersss—I get it. I know you care about me. And I...I feel like I did before you...before. For me it’ss the sssame. But it was just a few years of that, really. I know. And if it’ss not the sssame for you, we don’t have to...to do it anymore. I’m your friend either way. If you—if you want. I know it was a lot to leave Heaven. Think about that all the time. How hard it had to be for you to do that. How much it...meanss. I don’t have to touch you and all...It’ss all right. I don’t want to if if it’s not what you want.”

Aziraphale’s heart pounds. He will have to say something. This is _not_ what he wants. But maybe it’s not worth it to Crowley. Maybe his patience has grown thin. Aziraphale is hurting him. He deserves better, more. He will leave Aziraphale alone. Entirely alone. They will meet every ten years or so for dinner and drinks at Aziraphale’s request, and Aziraphale will pretend that he does not crave the feel of his body, the taste of his mouth. That he does not live in memories of his smiles, his laughs, his shared thoughts, that he does not think of him each time he hears the word _love_ , the words _friend_ , _family_ , _home_. No, Aziraphale cannot bear to think of it. He will do the selfish thing, then.

“That’s not it, Crowley, please. Please.” He feels guilty asking. He ought to let him pull away. But he can’t, he can’t. “I don’t regret leaving Heaven. Not at all. That was...that was an _easy_ choice for me, my dear. I still...it’s the same for me too. I want...I still want this. You.” Aziraphale forces himself to smile a little, to show that they can move on from this awkward moment. He hopes.

Crowley stops holding himself so tightly. He even smiles, just a little curl of the lip, his eyes going to the ground, then back up, fixing Aziraphale in that bright yellow gaze. His eyes are wet, but his face is carefully neutral.

“Then what?” he says.

“It...it _hurt_ a little. That’s all. Not your fault, my dear,” he adds, as Crowley begins to look pained, as his mouth opens to apologize maybe, or to ask why, to ask about Heaven again, to ask questions Aziraphale can’t answer. “I’ve...had an injury.”

“You can’t heal it?” Crowley says.

“Not that kind of injury, I’m afraid. Just a bit sore, mostly. It will get better,” he says, remembering when Raphael had said the same about his body, how false it had felt. If he had come back in his body, as it had looked in Heaven, Crowley would not have had to ask what was wrong; he would have been able to see for himself what had become of Aziraphale; there would be no hiding it. Now Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, letting the effort chase away the memories. “But there are some rather sensitive spots I hadn’t known were there, apparently.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tips his head, starting to shake it, doubtfully.

“ _Please_ , Crowley. It’s nothing. It’ll be all right in time. I’ll be absolutely tickety-boo. You know how it goes.”

“Tickety…” Crowley shakes his head as if clearing it. “When did this happen, angel?”

“During training for the war, I expect,” Aziraphale says. “In Heaven.” It’s not a complete lie. Crowley studies him, head tilted to the side, hair draped over one shoulder.

“You _expect_.”

Aziraphale nods, setting his jaw. Crowley sighs, looks away, then back at him.

“They hurt you?” Crowley’s fingers brush his sleeve, not closing around him, not pressing, not touching his skin.

“During training,” Aziraphale says, looking down at Crowley’s fingers. Such lovely hands.

“So before, when I was holding your hands and you—”

“Y-yes, it did hurt then. Just a little. Not your fault, so I didn’t want to be a bother. I’d hoped you didn’t notice,” Aziraphale smiles apologetically. But Crowley’s eyes widen, his jaw twitching. He looks appalled, disappointed, and now Aziraphale really can’t meet his gaze.

“So you just didn’t _say_? _Aziraphale?_ You were letting me _hurt_ you because you didn’t want to bother me?”

“Well, it _didn’t_ hurt at first. Tonight, I mean. It’s only _moments_. It isn’t as if—”

The buzzer sounds. The food has arrived. Crowley makes quick work of the deliveryman, giving him a massive tip to make up for practically ripping the food out of his hand before shouting “Ta” and shoving the door closed in his face.

He sets the food out in front of them. Pours the wine, arranges Aziraphale’s sushi on a plate.

He holds Aziraphale on the couch. Sits with his legs out along the length and wraps his legs around him so Aziraphale can sit between them.

He doesn’t speak about it again, and Aziraphale is grateful. It feels better, in a way, with Crowley knowing. Less alone. And he hasn’t pried. Aziraphale wishes he could burrow into Crowley, that they could become the same entity somehow, so they’d never have to be apart, and he’d never have to wonder, never hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I should have told you.”

“Don’t,” Crowley says. “Just tell me how I can help. Please just tell me. _Tell me_.”

Aziraphale leans back against him. “Kiss me?” he says. He knows Crowley can, even in this position. He drops his head back onto Crowley’s shoulder and parts his lips when Crowley’s mouth descends on his. Then Aziraphale turns his head into the crook of his neck and breathes there, pressing kisses against the hot skin that cause Crowley to gasp and shudder.

“It felt good,” he says. “I promise. _You always_ make me feel good. You’re the only...Will you do it again? I’ll tell you if it hurts. Perhaps you might avoid any pressure to my hands.”

Crowley is still shaking from the kisses to his neck. He looks down at Aziraphale and nods. Aziraphale sees it again, in his gaze. Desire, barely suppressed and buried in confusion, but reverent as ever. It thrills through him. There is no feeling of guilt. No shame at his enjoyment of the touch, of the way Crowley is looking at him. But then something changes. Crowley presses his eyes closed and when he looks at Aziraphale now, it’s tentative, sad. He looks at Aziraphale a lot that way now. Aziraphale hates it.

“Did it hurt,” Crowley begins, then sighs, and starts over. “Did I hurt you, when we, that first night after…”

“ _No_ ,” Aziraphale says. “How could you have hurt me? I told you. You didn’t do anything wrong, my dear.”

“Please don’t let me hurt you, Aziraphale. Please.”

Aziraphale kisses his neck again, tastes the taut, clean skin with his tongue. Crowley gasps, and his hands resume their easy, comforting motion over Aziraphale’s arms and shoulders. He relaxes and Aziraphale relaxes too. _It will be all right,_ Aziraphale thinks. _It’s all right._

* * *

Crowley curses his body the next morning. Only verbally, that is. He’d woken up hard, leaking, his dream of sinking into Aziraphale fading even as he wakes to find the angel wrapped around him. And that was new. Aziraphale had never held Crowley in his sleep when they lay together here. They were coming up on something, Crowley thought, and he wasn’t sure what it was, wasn’t sure if it was right, if it would go the way he wanted it to. He doesn’t want to move, to give up this warmth, to wake the angel or disturb his peace. But if he wakes up, he’ll feel Crowley, even turned away from him as he is. He’ll feel the tension in his body, the way his breaths are coming hard and fast. He could just miracle it away, he supposes. The arousal, or maybe even the whole organ. It’s not as if it’s doing him any good. Not for the first time he wonders why he’d kept it around for so long after Aziraphale had been discorporated.

Behind him, against him, Aziraphale stirs, lets out a little breath as he wakes with the slightest noise. _Fuck_. Crowley feels himself stiffening further; it’s almost painful.

“Angel,” Crowley says, quietly.

“Hello,” Aziraphale whispers. His voice is sleepy, husky, and he presses forward against Crowley. Crowley’s heart pounds. His head swims.

“Hi. So, look. I think maybe I should ah, get up.”

Aziraphale does not let go. “I _know_ , Crowley. It’s all right,” he says.

“Let me up, Aziraphale.”

An exhale, the breath on Crowley’s neck doing nothing to help his situation. The arms loosen. Crowley scoots forward, comes to sitting, hunches over, elbows digging into his knees, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. There’s a rustle behind him, and the mattress shifts. A soft hand on his back.

“I’d quite like for you to take care of yourself,” Aziraphale says.

“What?” Crowley doesn’t look up.

“You still...like being with me. It’s all right. I want you to. Don’t get rid of it, my dear. You needn’t hide from me.”

“You want…”

“Yes. If you do.”

“No.” Crowley looks around and faces Aziraphale. “Tell me. Tell me what you want. Say it, Aziraphale. I don’t want to misunderstand.”

Aziraphale leans across the bed, reaches for his face and strokes it, fingers pressing out along his cheekbone, sliding down to caress his jaw.

“I want you to touch yourself. I want you to let yourself come for me.”

“In _front_ of you.”

“If you like. Or I could leave, if you’d prefer. But I don’t want you to miracle it away. Or feel as if you shouldn’t want that. I like that you still feel...that for me.”

“Fuck, Aziraphale. Are you _sure_? Last time—”

“That was different. That wasn’t because of anything you did. This time I won’t touch you. I’ll just watch. Just be here, if you want me to. If it’s not too awkward. Or I could go...and know that you’d...” Aziraphale gives a coy little wiggle of his head, that shy, beguiling smile.

“No. I want to see you,” Crowley says, his eyes on Aziraphale’s clothed form. There’s a beat of silence, and Crowley’s eyes flick up to Aziraphale’s face, to his wide eyes. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “But I… would you want…I want to see you. All of you, angel.”

“I could undress for you,” Aziraphale says, blushing. “Would you like that? So it doesn’t feel like I’m an audience.”

Crowley reaches out for him, hesitates, drops his hand. No touching. God, he’s an idiot.

“You’re not an audience,” Crowley says. “Angel, is something wrong? Something you don’t want to show me? The injuries?”

“No. No. I’m fine. I’d very much like to do this for you. But it’s only if you _want_ , Crowley.” Aziraphale says. Crowley nods. Aziraphale unbuttons his tartan shirt and turns to slide each arm out carefully. His body looks whole and unblemished. He stands and faces Crowley. Crowley lets out a shaky breath, part relief, part arousal. “Will you?”

Crowley slides his hand into his silk trousers, pushing them down his hips slightly, lifting himself out. Crowley wants to touch Aziraphale’s soft, perfect skin, but instead he slides his hand over his own cock, dripping and red. His hips buck against his hand involuntarily.

“Yes, that’s lovely. Lie back?” Aziraphale suggests, he blinks at Crowley impishly. He gets to his feet and takes a step back, away from the bed. He smiles at Crowley and pushes his trousers down. There’s not a mark on him. Crowley’s body shudders with longing.

Crowley moves his hand faster. Aziraphale’s cock is swollen and red. Thick and perfect, just as he remembers it. Crowley wants to feel the velvety skin against his hand. His thighs are soft and pale, and his legs and abdomen and chest covered in the same pale, downy hair. Crowley can feel it against him in his memory. Can feel the press of his cock against Crowley’s, damp and insistent. He moans, imagining rubbing his face against it. Aziraphale gives a little shudder; it makes his cock bob. His eyes close slightly, the pupils blown wide. He doesn’t blink.

“It’s all right, darling,” Aziraphale whispers. “You are such a sweet, perfect thing. Always just what I need.”

“Oh, God,” Crowley says. “Oh, fuck, angel. _Angel._ ” And then the sounds that come out of Crowley are not words. His eyes close, and he feels the wet heat of his come. When he opens his eyes again, he’s covered with his own mess and Aziraphale is staring at him hungrily, chest heaving. His hand moves hesitantly toward his own cock and Crowley nods at him. “It’s OK, angel. Go ahead.” Aziraphale gives himself a few strokes and comes almost immediately, gasping as his spend streams down over him, landing on the floor, on the bed. He looks dazed, shocked, lost. None of it touches Crowley, but Crowley imagines it hitting his skin, his throat, the inside of him.

“Ah, fuck,” Crowley says as his balls clench again, own cock gives another insistent spurt, and he flinches, tipping his head back into the pillows, groaning.

He opens his eyes when he feels the mattress shift. Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. He waves a hand to clean them up, then picks up his pajamas from the floor and starts to pull on the trousers. Crowley tugs his own back into place as he watches the angel, aching to feel the soft skin against him—just a press of his hand on Aziraphale’s back, but he knows he can’t.

And...what the hell just happened? After this, they will have to talk. Will have to figure out where they are, what this means. Crowley reaches out, presses the tips of his fingers tentatively against Aziraphale’s bare arm, the action feeling less loaded now that Aziraphale’s half dressed.

“You all right?” he asks.

Aziraphale turns, smiling at him. “ _Perfectly_ ,” he says, his voice swollen with emotion. “Thank you. That was lovely. Did you...like it?”

“Yes, Aziraphale. _Clearly._ ”

 _Don’t go,_ he thinks. _Just don’t leave._

“Oh, good.” Aziraphale slides his arms into the shirt, looking down as he begins to button it. “Crowley,” he begins. “I—”

 _We need to talk_ , Crowley thinks. But he doesn’t say it; he waits. Maybe Aziraphale will begin the discussion. Maybe he will finally say what he needs to, what Crowley needs to hear. Maybe he will tell him whatever it is he’s not saying.

Aziraphale looks down at the bedding.

“Would you...will you hold me?”

Something about the question, the tone of his voice makes Crowley feel broken. He lets out a little cry and reaches for the angel, almost hating the way Aziraphale goes limp with bliss in his arms, sighing as if with relief. It’s good he feels that, Crowley supposes, but what had he expected in the first place? That it was some sort of imposition? When had Crowley ever been reluctant to hold him? To touch him or kiss him? He’d promised, before they’d started this that he wouldn’t touch Crowley, as if that were a reassurance. Did he think he shouldn’t, somehow? That Crowley wouldn’t want him to? _What’s wrong, angel?_ Crowley thinks. “Hey,” he says, out loud, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. “It’s OK. We’re OK. Love holding you.” _Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?_ “Talk to me, angel,” he tries. “Still good?”

“ _So_ good,” Aziraphale says. “You’re always so good.”

 _But what about you?_ Crowley thinks, ignoring the way his chest gets warmer at the words. _I was asking about you. Tell me about you._

* * *

“I need to open the shop,” Aziraphale says finally. Crowley groans, his arms tightening around Aziraphale. The weight is comforting, the pressure light, careful.

“What if I don’t let you?” Crowley says. “What if I don’t want you to get up, ever?”

Aziraphale laughs, squirming against him, delighted at the unrelenting tangle of limbs, the pulse of love he feels from the demon; it’s best not to probe at that last. “I’m afraid young Anathema would set out to divine my location and banish any demons found to be improperly restraining me.”

Crowley scoffed. “Right. Anathema. _Witchcraft_.”

 _I love you_ , Aziraphale thinks. What would Crowley do if he said it? He tries to ignore the flashes of it that he feels from Crowley. They might not be real. They have not said it since he’s been back. Aziraphale is afraid to say it, to look foolish. He has been nothing but a lot of trouble. And Crowley has been tolerant, gentle. More caring than he deserved. _Something you don’t want to show me? The injuries?_ But Aziraphale had no visible injuries. Whatever the Antichrist had done had restored his appearance entirely, but was apparently powerless against the actual, Heaven-inflicted wounds. Aziraphale himself hadn’t even known they were still there for a long time. What did Crowley imagine had happened to him? That he’d been _tortured_? He feels guilty letting him think that. But he can’t tell him the truth, not the way he’d asked, sitting on the side of the bed, hunched over himself, trying to hide his arousal as if it was such a terrible thing to feel in the presence of his lover. Aziraphale _liked_ to see him aroused. He hadn’t wanted to say things that would make it stop. So he said things that would make him forget, instead. Then he forgot, himself.

But it had been, well, fun, being with Crowley that way. He feels safe with him. Perhaps he _should_ tell him. Perhaps he should tell him that he loves him. Perhaps he should tell him that Heaven had known. That they had...no. He can’t say it: That they had kept him separate from the others, as if he could spread his contamination, the contamination of Crowley’s touch, of Aziraphale’s desire for him, like it was a sickness. (Is it? He’s still not sure. Not sure if it matters.) Or that his efforts to protect Aziraphale, to leave no traces of himself on the angel’s body had been for naught? He can’t say that to Crowley. It would embarrass him terribly. Or feel like an accusation of sorts.

Or force a question Aziraphale is afraid to raise.

And just when they were reaching a peace. So what did that leave for Aziraphale to say to him? That they had beat him for it? Only two beatings? What was that to what Crowley had endured over the the millennia of his cast-out life? Because Heaven had not really tortured Aziraphale, after all, had not burned him, boiled him, subjected him to the kind of treatment Crowley had endured his whole life. Crowley would think him pathetic, weak. He would not like the idea that Aziraphale had confessed so easily, that such a confession had risked Crowley himself. He would not want to hear that Aziraphale had begged forgiveness for loving him. He would think him foolish. If Crowley really did love him, he would be hurt, maybe even angry, destructive (there is still the matter of those boys who’d discorporated him?). If he did not (still the matter of those wars, and again, those boys, because there was more than one way to take that) _,_ would he laugh at Aziraphale? Or would he be angry?

_Of course Crowley really loves me. Then why can’t I bring myself to tell him the same?_

And what was Aziraphale’s love worth, really, if it was colored by all this doubt? All this uncertainty? All this fear? Who was he to offer love? He does not deserve to see Crowley’s face alight with happiness at the words. He does not presume to think that it would—and how that would hurt, or perhaps it would hollow Aziraphale out entirely until there was nothing left to ache.

“Aziraphale?”

“I don’t want to go, either,” Aziraphale says. He wishes they could make love. That he could forget everything forever except the feel of Crowley, his hot skin against Aziraphale, the sounds of his pleasure, the dark joy of being held in his gaze as Aziraphale holds his body within his own as they’d done only once before. But he knows they can’t. It doesn’t feel quite right, wouldn’t turn out to be what he really wanted. Because it wouldn’t really make him forget. Wouldn’t really be the way it had been before. He knows that now. And anyway, after that night at the bookshop; after he’d hidden his pain from Crowley, Crowley doesn’t trust him anymore. Crowley is too tentative now, too afraid, too careful and apologetic. They both are. It’s not easy the way it had been.

“So, don’t.” Crowley presses his face into Aziraphale’s neck, scrunching his body up around him, legs hooking around him. “Stay forever. Right here with me. Like this. Promise. I’ll keep you safe and warm and you won’t ever ever leave. Not even for a minute.” There’s a smile in his voice. Aziraphale knows he’s being careful now, too, making sure Aziraphale can tell it’s light, playful, not a serious attempt at restraining him. But of course Aziraphale knows that. Crowley shouldn’t have to try so hard to seem nonthreatening. When has he ever threatened Aziraphale?

“Not ever,” Aziraphale says, ostensibly answering Crowley. But he _has_ to go. He feels tears starting. If he stays here, he will begin to sob. There will be no hiding it, not with Crowley wrapped around him like this, his attention so thorough. He sighs. “All right.” he shifts, starting to sit up, not wanting Crowley to notice that he’s pushing down tears. Crowley’s limbs recede from him, not holding, not restraining. Aziraphale feels cold where they’d touched. He dresses with a miracle while Crowley lies very still in the bed. Aziraphale does not look at his face.

“I’ll see you tonight, my dear,” he says, starting to feel more normal already.

“Tonight,” Crowley says, darkly. Aziraphale frowns slightly, and turns to face him. But Crowley just smiles and closes his eyes.

* * *

It’s not like her, but Anathema is there when Aziraphale arrives at the shop. He checks the time—it can be easy to lose track of what seem like long stretches for humans, but no, it’s only a little after nine in the morning.

“Miss Device!” Aziraphale greets her, unlocking the door. She is clutching the box to her chest again, her other hand fisted around a white bag stamped with a bakery logo.

“I thought I might ply you with breakfast and we could discuss a sale,” she says, brazen, but still clearly nervous. Aziraphale frowns. They’d ended their last conversation on a note of uncertainty. Anathema had taken the manuscript home with her when she’d left, confessing that she wasn’t sure she wanted to sell it, that she wasn’t sure she wanted the uncertainty of all these decisions for the rest of her life.

Now, she follows Aziraphale to the back room, and they spread the pastries out on the table in front of them as Aziraphale starts the electric tea kettle Crowley had put there. Aziraphale feels like a collection of parts cobbled together rather poorly. Anathema cannot tell, he reminds himself as he sits down. She sits the boxed book on the sofa, and tries to smile at Aziraphale across the table. But the poor girl is terrified.

“Are you quite sure about the sale?” Aziraphale asks, gently.

“It’s just that now Newt wants me to come home with him to Dorking,” she says, the words tumbling out of her. “And I want...I want to go _home_ home. I’ve never, not once, done something just because I wanted to. Do you know how hard it is to get an internship with the ambassador to the UK just so I could be in the right place at the right time? I mean, I guess it was worth it. We might have had a nuclear war if Newt and I hadn’t...But do you know everything I had to do? The sacrifices I had to make? I never even had friends. It was just study this and read that and memorize this. Do you know how hard it is to gain language fluency in anything but English when you live in the US? Do you know how hard it is to get into an Ivy League school. And you _have_ to, to do the kind of networking I had to...and do you know how hard _networking_ is for an introvert? For an outsider? I never dated. It wasn’t _important_. It was just all about the prophecy.” She stops, her breaths coming hard and fast.

Aziraphale waits, sensing that she’s not done. He pours the water into a teapot and sets it on the table. The ritual can be soothing, but he wonders if it is to her, if, as an American, she only associates it with the pressures of acclimating to England. They drink coffee in America, primarily, he thinks. He wants to ask her why she needed additional language fluency to come to the UK. He does not understand the modern American University system, apparently.

“It’s hard for me to even say this,” she says. “To be like this.”

“It’s quite all right,” Aziraphale says. He pours her a cup of tea, then, when she doesn’t reach for it, he rests his hand over hers for a moment. “It’s good to talk.”

“I think I need therapy,” Anathema says. “I think I need to have a lot of hard conversations. I think I need to start telling people what I really think. My mother. Newt.”

“Good,” Aziraphale says. “I think that would be good, yes. But you have to remember, Anathema, that initiating those hard conversations is its own reward. You can’t go in expecting people to respond any particular way.”

“I don’t need them to,” Anathema says. “I’m tired of doing things just to get a particular response. I want to be able to breathe.”

“Good for you,” Aziraphale murmurs. ‘That’s very wise.”

Anathema sighs, shaky. “Thank you,” she says. She pours tea for both of them and nods at him. “I am...sure. About the sale.”

Aziraphale hesitates. If he plunders through this manuscript, he wonders what he will find. He wonders if there’s anything there that he will want to know. Or anything that he will not.

* * *

Crowley sleeps the rest of the morning. But that afternoon, he takes the time to do some thinking.

The previous night, and that morning had been a lot. Not that he’s complaining. But it’s hard to know what exactly is happening, what Aziraphale wants, what he expects. Crowley had thought, for a long time, that they needed to ease into physical contact, into trust, but now it suddenly seems like Aziraphale is putting everything back on the table. Well, they hadn’t _touched_ each other sexually again. But after that morning, the boundary isn’t exactly clear. Crowley would have to insist that they discuss what is and isn’t all right, what Aziraphale wants and does not want. Because right now, he’s very confused.

Right, so that’s settled.

But there are other things. This injury that apparently left no mark anywhere it affected. But it’s in his hands, his arms. Is it somewhere else too? What even is it? It doesn’t hurt all the time, he’d said, but at _moments_. What does that even mean? What had happened to him during training?

And then—what’s at the root of all this? Why is he so anxious about _sex_? Something had happened in Heaven. And Crowley had been sure, at first, that whatever it was, it had something to do with that. But now he wonders if it was something to do with _him_? Since Aziraphale’s return, in the back of his mind, Crowley had always felt that Heaven _had_ found out about him, that they had somehow used the knowledge to manipulate Aziraphale, and it had made him wary, overly cautious, as if someone was watching?

He remembers how angry Gabriel had been in Heaven, like Aziraphale’s death was something he’d been waiting for. Looking forward to.

Crowley tries to put aside his anger. Had someone deliberately _hurt_ Aziraphale like that? Had they punished him for being with Crowley? Oh, no, had someone...had someone...OK, it isn’t good to start imagining shit. He’ll just have to go slowly, gently. But he _is_ going to have to bring this up somehow. Because he’s starting to realize that his own waiting, his own silence, is just another form of cowardice. He doesn’t want to throw off their equilibrium, the new, relaxed way Aziraphale is around him, allowing more and more, letting them closer and closer. He likes that, yes, but it isn’t fair to Aziraphale if it means they’re ignoring something. And Crowley does feel like they are—like there’s something big between them, and they’re just reaching around it to touch each other, pulling each other closer and closer in more directions, contorting themselves to keep that space between them, always protecting that unnamed space, that space for _something_ , for what?

Crowley picks up French food that evening. Crepes, Château Haut-Brion, that awful fish thing that Aziraphale used to eat with all the butter, rose and orange blossom macarons, eclairs, everything he can think of that Aziraphale likes. As he’s setting out the spread, he wonders if it’s too much. He decides it’s not enough. He puts a bouquet out on the bed, a box of chocolates, roses. He wants Aziraphale to feel special, like the night is just for him, and he can choose to do anything he wants with it, and Crowley will still be there, giving him whatever he wants, indulging ever feeling, every whim he has, hearing everything he says without judgment. He wonders whether he should pick out a film or not. On the one hand, it might make him feel comfortable. On the other hand, it wouldn’t exactly be conducive to a conversation. In the end, he picks out a few films, light comedies, and sets them on the coffee table. If Aziraphale wants a film, they will watch a film. No pressure.

 _Pick you up?_ He texts Aziraphale.

😇

All right, fine. It’s a plan.

* * *

Aziraphale leans over and kisses Crowley as he gets into the Bentley.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. “It’s rather chilly out, isn’t it?” Aziraphale closes his hand over Crowley’s, squeezing it gently, letting go. It’s cold to the touch. He’s so thin, so bad with the cold.

“Nights are getting cold, yeah,” Crowley says. He seems hesitant, tense. Aziraphale watches him, waiting. But Crowley doesn’t say anything else, just pulls out into traffic, accelerating faster than ought to be possible.

The flat is transformed. Every surface, except for the couch, has food or wine on it, laid out attractively on real dishes.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, bringing his hands together in surprise. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

Crowley’s hand lands on his back, pulling him closer. “Good?”

“Perfect.” Aziraphale’s eyes sting. He looks around at the low lighting, the crepes, the jams and butters and creams, the desserts—eclairs and berries and macarons, the wine and champagne, and _Crowley_. He’s standing there, in those ridiculous trousers and a jacket with wide lapels that he’s started shrugging off, revealing a dark buttoned shirt tailored to show as much of the shape of him as decently possible. Azirapahle wants to touch him—not just just to embrace him in thanks, or cuddle against him, but to _touch_ him, to press his hands into his sides and feel the way his flesh yields, the way his bones do not, feel the heat of him, the way the shirt moves against the skin beneath, his breath, the way his body responds to Aziraphale’s touch. The want stills him. He hesitates, then lets himself lean against Crowley, slowly bringing his arms up, letting his hands press against Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley’s lips are on his forehead, beside his nose, on his mouth, and they are kissing, deep and hungry and sudden, gasping with it, Aziraphale’s hands sliding down Crowley’s back. Crowley makes a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and—can he want this? Can he trust Aziraphale this way? Is this what he wants, what Aziraphale wants? Will Aziraphale let himself drop his hands further, press into Crowley’s buttocks? Will he drop to the floor, reach his hands up and remove his belt, slide down that ridiculous zipper, and—he feels his body responding, his penis lengthening, hardening where they’re pressed together.

“Angel...whoa, wait, Aziraphale.”

“Oh! I’m…sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Crowley smiles, looking pleased with himself. “I’m glad you still want me, too, angel.”

“I’ve never not wanted you.”

There’s a silence. Crowley gulps, looks away, then back at Aziraphale, gaze intense. Aziraphale smiles a little. He likes it when Crowley gets worked up over him like this, it makes Aziraphale feel cherished. _Does he deserve to feel that? Is it real?_

“Good,” Crowley says, finally, his voice oddly insubstantial. “Yeah, but, you know, I don’t know if you want...I don’t know _what_ you want yet. Yeah? So let’s just have dinner, and...and we can talk, and figure out, you know, where we are. Um, after this morning. And everything?” Crowley’s voice breaks on this last, and he starts to raise a hand to his own hair, then twitches, and brings it back down.

“Of course, my dear. Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Quite right.”

They watch a film. Crowley’s hands land on Aziraphale’s shoulders, kneading gently.

“OK?” he says.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, reaching for his bow-tie.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Crowley says; his lips brush Aziraphale’s ear.

It doesn’t hurt.

* * *

By the time the movie ends, Aziraphale is lying supine on the couch, drowsing pleasantly, his body alight. Crowley is on the floor in front of him, hands on his feet, kneading them through his wool socks.

“Nothing hurts?” Crowley says.

“Nothing hurts,” Aziraphale agrees. “Do you want to sleep now?”

Crowley’s hands still. He sighs. “We can go lie down,” he says. “But we still need to talk, yeah?”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose.”

“You don’t have to come to bed,” Crowley says. “I know you don’t always want to sleep.” He presses into Aziraphale’s big toe, bends forward and kisses it.

“I’ll come,” Aziraphale says. “If it’s still all right.”

Crowley lets go and stands. His eyes are exposed, questioning. Aziraphale reaches for his hand. Crowley helps him to his feet and pulls him close, hugging him tight. Like Gabriel used to. Aziraphale pushes the thought away as a slight pain shoots through his left leg. “Come on,” Crowley says.

In the bedroom, there are flowers, chocolates. Aziraphale’s heart pounds at the sight of them, and he can’t explain why. The chocolates are from a familiar chocolatier. An old one, the one where Crowley had gotten them before, back in 1800. Crowley had come then, and he hadn’t really left. That was when things had changed, wasn’t it? What had happened? What had really been happening, then? He hadn’t understood it then. He’d thought he did, later, when they’d become lovers, but when he’d thought about it in Heaven, it had seemed so different, calculated...

He opens his mouth to try to speak, and he can’t. Crowley opens the box, smiling. For a moment, Aziraphale thinks he will feed him the chocolates. But he only opens the box and hands it to Aziraphale, a gentle expression on his face. Aziraphale sits next to him on the bed and places one in his mouth on his tongue, letting it dissolve enough to taste the sweetness before he begins to chew. The dark milky sweetness is grounding, comforting. He concentrates on it. Next to him, he feels Crowley growing tense. Like there’s a barrier there. He can’t feel Crowley’s love right then, just dark gray pulses of something like duty, the kind of devotion that comes from responsibility. _That_ ’s what he is, and suddenly he’s ashamed. He leans forward, the taste of the chocolate still in his mouth, and presses his lips to Crowley’s, pushes him back into the mattress.

“Ah,” Crowley says. “Aziraphale. We need…let’s...”

“Do you miss touching me?” Aziraphale says, shifting over him. His body is already stimulated, loose, so it’s an easy thing to move against Crowley, to use a miracle to get the last of the way there, to show Crowley what he wants. He wants to forget.

“You know I do. Oh, god. Angel. You know I…” Aziraphale kisses his neck. Crowley throws his head back, turns, capturing his mouth in his.

 _Yes, yes_. But it’s over so quickly. A single kiss, then Crowley pulls away. Aziraphale knows they have to talk. He knows it’s what Crowley wants. But it feels like rejection. Because if they talk, if he has to _say_ things, he doesn’t know what they will be, and then Crowley won’t want this anymore. Whatever he says, it will be over. There will be only more of that awful feeling of duty, of responsibility, or maybe there won’t even be that. Maybe there will be guilt, or anger, or revulsion in Crowley’s face. Maybe that will be all there is left.

“Wait, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “Listen,” he reaches up, traces a hand along Aziraphale’s cheek. “This morning was incredible. And...I love you,” he says, and that’s not right. Aziraphale cannot breathe. Did he say he loved him? Did he say...why did he...? “I...oh, god, this isn’t how I wanted this to go. Hey, let’s sit up, OK? Let’s do this properly. Angel, this is important. I’m sorry, but...I don’t want us to do something we can’t...God, I love you. So much. I know there are things you’re not telling me. And maybe that’s OK. It’s OK if you need, uh, boundaries or whatever...but we ought to talk about what they are, yeah? So we can make sure everything’s OK. What you want. So we can do what you want, I mean. And not more than that. Or...you know. Yeah?”

Aziraphale barely hears this, barely feels the hand gently stroking his back. He rolls off of Crowley, bringing his body upright. He feels ashamed, hot, his eyes stinging. His body aches dully and he feels dizzy. He’d only wanted to make sure Crowley knew he didn’t have to try so hard. That it was all right, that Aziraphale would make it easier, would not be so much trouble. But that was wrong. _He_ was wrong. Everything about him was wrong. Everything.

 _I love you_ , the demon had said. _I love you_. Aziraphale had not said that. Aziraphale did not think Crowley wanted to hear that from him. And anyway, Crowley didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. He did not know Aziraphale. Did not know the truth of him. Couldn’t love someone so twisted and broken and weak. And maybe Crowley could not love at all. Maybe he never had. Did he think Aziraphale needed to hear that from him? Even now?

“You don’t have to,” he says, his face hot.

“What?” Crowley’s hand is on his shoulder, so careful, gentle. Why didn’t he just squeeze, make the bones of his hand like a vise? He could. It would be easy for him, so strong and thin. Why didn’t he just press Aziraphale down into the bed and take what he inexplicably wanted? (Needed? To slake his lust?) Did he think Aziraphale would fight? Object? Didn’t he know that Aziraphale would give him anything?

“You don’t have to love me. Or pretend that you do. You needn’t be so careful anymore, so... _kind_. No one’s checking now. No one’s looking for marks or...or traces. You can do what you like with me. I won’t go anywhere. Whatever you do. Unless you want me to.”

“Azir—”

“Whatever you want, Crowley. It’s whatever _you_ want. I don’t need all of this. I don’t...I don’t deserve—” Deserve? No, now he’s crying, now he’s making this about him, undoing the effect. Now Crowley will argue and, oh, no, no. He was supposed to show that he didn’t care. Not show how pathetic he was. Not to show everything he’s been keeping in. (And is this what he’s been keeping in? It had seemed much more complicated, somehow, than this.) But he feels naked now. Visible. Now Crowley is looking at him in horror. Now Crowley is angry. _Finally,_ Aziraphale thinks, even through his disappointment.

Crowley’s hands are on his shoulders. And they are not gentle, not reassuring. He’s gripping him in place, looking at him, peering at his face as if it’s unfamiliar, as if it has changed. And he’s disgusted. That same look, horrified, like Aziraphale had asked him to groom his wings. Like Aziraphale had touched his. He didn’t love Aziraphale. Of course he didn’t. He never had. It was just as Heaven had said. Crowley’s face blurs. Aziraphale’s eyes are full with tears. Why is he crying? This isn’t anything he hadn’t expected. What would Crowley do now that he knew Aziraphale knew?

“What the fuck?” Crowley says. Aziraphale blinks and the tears fall, clearing his vision. Crowley’s eyes are wide, snake-yellow. Not a trace of anything human in them. He lets go, pressing hands to his mouth, pressing hard like he will vomit. Aziraphale makes him want to vomit. Aziraphale looks away from him, at the dark wood floor of his bedroom. “Oh, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Crowley says. He stands up, heading for the door. Then he turns and looks at Aziraphale again, as if hoping he’ll see something different when he does. He leans toward him, mouth twisting, head shaking. “Do you mean that? Do you—?”

Aziraphale can’t answer. He’s too ashamed. _Perhaps,_ he thinks—but it’s only a glimmer of a thought. Not quite anything.

“I didn’t—it’s nothing,” he starts, his chest heaving. But it’s too hard to get the words together, to get them out, to think of them, and he can’t really speak. He reaches for Crowley, aware that he needs to apologize, to fix this, but Crowley isn’t close enough anymore to touch. Aziraphale looks down. The door opens. It closes. Crowley is gone. He’s finally gone. _I love you,_ he had said. _I love you_. He will not say it again. Aziraphale feels something give way inside of him, something he doesn’t recognize, something he hadn’t even realized was there. He tries to stay quiet, aware that he is still in Crowley’s space, where he does not deserve to be. His body begins to convulse, and he slides to the floor, drawing his knees in, squeezing his eyes closed. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t stop the tears. Doesn’t stop the pain, hot like fire, shooting through his hands, his back, his legs, everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: explicit sex, panic attack, flashbacks to physical violence


	16. No Hiding Place for Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley deal with the aftermath of Aziraphale's breakdown. Aziraphale makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “His soul was resolute, and held no hiding-place for fear.” —from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” by Oscar Wilde

Crowley closes the door behind him, his hands flying back up to his face, pushing against his mouth, his eyes. He wishes he could undo everything. He wishes he could take back the last few minutes, start over, talk to him in the living room, sitting a foot away, a smile on Aziraphale’s face. How hard could it have been?

And it still wouldn’t have solved anything if this was what at the root. He’s angry enough to set fire to the whole building, burn it down, get out of London forever. _You don’t have to love me. Or pretend that you do._

Pretend? Was that what he really believed? Did he really think that, after all this time? Did he think Crowley had been pretending the whole time? Or just since he’d been back? After everything, he doubted Crowley? Because Crowley was a demon? It could only be that. Hadn’t Crowley shown him that he loved him? Was Aziraphale really taking each of his demonstrations of care and love as some sort of deception? Why? And did he really believe that Crowley wanted to hurt him, to use him? That all that had stopped him was a fear of Heaven’s retribution?

But...he’d said something else, or been about to. _I don’t deserve..._ was that what Heaven had told him? Was that what they’d done? Made him believe he couldn’t trust Crowley, couldn’t trust himself? That he wasn’t worth love, so he must have been tricked, used, like some kind of pawn in a Hellish game of chess?

There had been some part of him, hadn’t there, that had known that, that had picked up on that sense that Aziraphale was horribly uncertain about something, that he felt he didn’t deserve kindness, didn’t deserve Crowley’s attentiveness and care. The way he’d minimized it by calling Crowley kind, as if he were indiscriminately so, as if trying to convince himself, even. Yes, some part of Crowley could tell Aziraphale was holding himself back, punishing himself, treating himself like _less_. It hurt to hear it so clearly, but it wasn’t the surprise it should have been. And now Crowley feels the anger turned inwards, remembers the way Aziraphale had looked, sitting on his bed, chest heaving, panicking, probably not even completely aware of what he was saying, and he’d stood and walked away from him. He’d left him there alone. From inside the room, he hears a little groan; he recognizes the sound of stifled keening. _Shit. Shit._ He just needs to get it together, he just needs to fucking breathe.

Aziraphale is in there. He’s panicking, flying to pieces, doesn’t think Crowley loves him, doesn’t think anyone cares. And Crowley can’t even get it together enough to go in there and show him it’s not true. He shoves it down. It’s not about him, and that’s why he doesn’t want Aziraphale to see how upset he is. But maybe it’s better to let him see it than to let him stay alone another moment, Crowley’s absence only confirming whatever they’d made him believe.

He throws open the door and at first he doesn’t see him. He’s on the other side of the bed, white-gold hair just visible over the edge. Crowley takes three strides and he’s there. He bends, knees on the ground, arms reaching for him. Aziraphale’s on his hands and knees, face red and wet, gasping, keening when he tries not to, to press his lips together against it.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, wincing. “It’s all right, OK?” Crowley says, because he wants Aziraphale to know he’s there before he touches him. He’s honestly not sure Aziraphale has even seen him.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, Crowley, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it’s not all right. It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m not all right. I’m sorry.”

Crowley rests a hand against Aziraphale’s back, and feels him relax a little at the touch even as he presses his eyes closed.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers. “Come here,” Aziraphale looks around at him, his eyes already apologetic, and Crowley slides his hand down to his side, pulling Aziraphale up and against him, holding the weight of him against his chest. _Fragile_ , Aziraphale had once said. Well, now he can be strong.

Aziraphale is still against him, his breathing slow and deep, as if he’s trying to calm down. His grip on Crowley is tentative, almost an afterthought, just a response to Crowley’s holding him up. Crowley hates it. He grits his teeth, forces out the words he can’t believe he has to say. “I have never _pretended_ to love you,” Crowley says. Or growls. _Fuck_. He needs to be careful. But Aziraphale’s arms tighten around him and he sobs harder, not holding back anymore.

“OK. There you are,” Crowley says, biting back tears. “You’re in there. Hey.”

Aziraphale sniffles. “Hello,” he sobs, finally. “I’m so sorry. This is shameful. I know.”

“No. You don’t have to be ashamed, OK? It’s fine, angel. Just let it out.”

“I was horrible. I’m horrible. You’re good and kind and loving, and I—nothing is enough for me. I twist everything into something horrible. I’m sorry. So sorry, my...my dearest.”

“Shh...Angel...no. You’re not horrible. Not horrible.”

“It was a horrible thing to say.”

Crowley does not argue with this. “Is that what they told you?” Crowley says. “That I didn’t really…”

“That demons can’t love,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, but I _know_ it’s not true. Or that you’re different. I know you do. I _know_.”

“Shh,” Crowley says. He tries not to think about the cavern in his chest. Aziraphale had loved him so much he’d come back to Crowley, even not believing what had happened between them was real. He’d been willing to let Crowley use him. Maybe even hurt him. And maybe that was because he realized he couldn’t fight against Hell if Hell included Crowley. Maybe that was because he didn’t want a hand in destroying his home of six thousand years. But there had to be something else, because none of that would explain how Heaven had been able to make him believe it when he could see the truth directly, when he could feel Crowley’s love for himself. For that, they would have had to turn Aziraphale into a weapon against himself. That meant Crowley could still lose Aziraphale. He’d already come so much closer than he’d realized. So after considering, he adds, “You don’t have to know. I _want_ you to, but you don’t have to _say_ you do if you don’t. If you’re not sure. It’s not your fault. I’ll show you, all right? I’ll show you as many times as you need.”

“Don’t, you _do_ already. But you _shouldn’t_. It’s not fair, Crowley. It’s not right. You should...you should let me go. I’ll just hurt you again. I’m not the same. I’m not the same.”

It’s true, Crowley thinks. He isn’t either. But they’re both still _themselves_. They still love each other. He shakes his head “I’m not going anywhere. You just hold on to me, OK? I’m here, angel. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale is heavy against him, his body crushing Crowley’s against the side of the bed, but Crowley feels only the weight of his own action, of holding Aziraphale up, of bracing him. It does not occur to him to move away, or shift for his own comfort. He rubs Aziraphale’s back, keeping his arms tight in place around him, murmuring softly. Gradually, Aziraphale stills, resting against him. He glances up at Crowley and offers a fretful, apologetic smile that’s over in an instant before he lowers his face against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Do you remember,” Crowley says, “the first night we spent in my rooms at Brown’s? Do you remember how you thought I was pulling away from you? That I was disappointed with us?”

Aziraphale pulls back again and looks warily at him. Crowley reaches up carefully and brushes the tears from his cheeks, another swipe of fingers to his eyelids, gentle, trying to show as much love as he can.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says.

“So, I didn’t think I was good enough for you. I thought...angel, demon. Literal embodiment of Grace, fallen from Grace. Who was I to think that I could...and I was waiting, angel. I was waiting for you to realize it, to see for yourself that I could never be good enough, that I was beneath you…and the more I loved you, the closer we got, the more likely it was that you would see it, so I—”

“Crowley, please don’t—”

“No, listen. I didn’t _want_ you to realize it. I was so scared because I loved you so much I couldn’t stand the thought of you leaving me. It’s not that demons can’t love, Aziraphale. It’s that they _don’t_. Don’t want to, mostly, because...who would love one back, you know? First thing we learn when we Fall. I couldn’t see myself any other way. So, I tricked myself into thinking...you didn’t know what you were seeing when you looked at me. That you forgot I was a demon sometimes, or you tried not to think about it, that you were kind enough to just ignore the bad parts of me. But you didn’t forget anything, did you? You didn’t ignore what I was. You saw me. It took me a long time to realize you saw everything just as it was and you still… you...It kept me going, angel. When I woke up and when I saw what I had to do.” Crowley’s voice hitches, he’d tried not to cry, not so Aziraphale could see, but here he is.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t really believe you _lied_ to me. It’s just—”

“No, angel. I’m trying to say something here. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. I’m trying to tell you...Whatever you think you can’t tell me, you can. Don’t you see that? I love _you_ , not some image of you. Some idea of you. I’m trying to tell you it doesn’t matter if you think you deserve it or not. I still do. OK? I’m not going anywhere. I’m really not.”

Aziraphale nods. “My goodness,” he says, sliding off of his perch somewhere in the middle of Crowley’s abdomen. “That can’t have been comfortable. Oh, I’m sorry. It seems I’m always...sorry.”

“ ’S all right, angel.” Crowley leans forward, feeling his back groan in protest before sagging in relief. “Want to sit on the bed? Still chocolates. Pillows. Stuff you like.” Crowley smiles. “Or we can stay down here.”

“We still need to...talk,” Aziraphale says, softly. He offers a twitchy little smile. “I’m sorry I...derailed your plans for the evening.”

“It was a nice evening,” Crowley says. Aziraphale narrows his eyes sceptically. “It _was_. Are you _ready_ to talk about anything? Or do you want to just rest?”

Aziraphale sighs. “No, no,” he says. “I do feel that I owe you an explanation of sorts. But I...” He nods at Crowley, then stands, tugging at his disheveled clothes. Crowley watches him a moment before he stands.

“Don’t owe me anything. What if I tuck you in for tonight? Give you some space? Could take you home if you’d rather?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, I mean, if you don’t mind I’d rather...I don’t want you to go. I want to talk. I want...Crowley? I need you to know that I...love you. I need you to know that. My dearest, whatever I...I never want us to separate. Never want us to be apart. However it might...seem.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Remember how you used to...oh, Crowley. I wish…”

“Aziraphale, what’s happening? What are you trying to say?” Crowley keeps his voice level, calm. He’s still expecting Aziraphale to say he wants to go back to the bookshop. That he wants Crowley to give him some space. But Aziraphale presses his eyes closed, reaching out toward Crowley. Crowley takes his hands and Aziraphale lets out a breath, like relief.

“I need to ask you something,” he says.

“Anything.”

Aziraphale nods at the bed, as if inviting Crowley to take a seat. So he does. Aziraphale sits next to him, still holding his hand like it’s some treasured object. He looks at Crowley’s hand when he speaks.

“Could you tell me...what happened...to those boys who discorporated me?”

Crowley lets out a breath, stunned, relieved.

“Yeah. Of course. I—uh, saw them coming around the corner after. I found them in a pub, made them turn themselves in. Didn’t know why they were doing it.”

“Turn themselves in. What—to the local _constabulary_?”

“To the police, yeah.”

“Is that all?” Aziraphale looks stunned, incredulous.

Crowley smiles slightly. “Not enough?” he says. “Well, you know, they _probably_ went to Hell, when they got around to dying, but I left that up to them.”

Aziraphale lets out a little moan of anguish and then throws himself against Crowley. “The world wars,” he says. “Heaven said you...started them. I didn’t believe that, at least not the way they said it, exactly, but I never asked you. I’m asking you now. Please, it’s not an accusation. I’ll understand. I just…” He pulls back a little, when Crowley stills. Crowley does hesitate now. He’s thought about this and thought about it over the years, and though he’s come to see that it’s not his fault, it doesn’t change the guilt he feels at his involvement.

“OK,” he says. “I’m just going to...tell you exactly the way it happened.” He tells Aziraphale about the message from Hell, the way he’d tried to thwart it. That it hadn’t worked. He doesn’t tell him about the way it had felt to find out. But Aziraphale seems to know. He strokes Crowley’s hair, resting his hands on Crowley’s face.

“I thought it must have been something like that,” he said, quietly. “Oh, my sweet demon. Who I love.”

Crowley frowns. “What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing.” Aziraphale smiles. “My sweet demon. I do so love you.” he surprises Crowley when he leans forward and kisses his jaw. “I love you so.”

“I know,” he says. ‘It’s OK, Aziraphale.”

“You love me.”

“ ’Course I do. Don’t you...can’t you feel it?”

Aziraphale nods. Crowley moves a little, shifting so that he’s lying back against the pillows, and Aziraphale moves with him, his head resting in the crook of Crowley’s neck.

“They told me,” Aziraphale says, voice hesitant. “That there was something wrong with my sensors, if you will. That I was defective. I couldn’t feel any love when I was there. Not even from Her, you see. So. I thought they might have been right.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley breathes. “No. Nothing wrong with you. Something wrong with _them_. All of them. Bastards. _Defective._ You didn’t feel any love because there wasn’t any there. I saw how they were. No other way they could do that to you. Ignore you and then make you doubt anyone to care about you. Make you feel like you’re wrong to think anybody did, just because they didn’t. That’s...that’s sick, that is.”

“I believed them,” Aziraphale says. “I thought you must have seen it. Been able to tell. That there was something wrong with me…I thought...well, sometimes I thought maybe you just knew I was easy to fool. And then sometimes I thought maybe it was why you didn’t want to…to...”

“Didn’t want what, angel?”

“To see my essence. Or let me touch your wings. Or touch mine. Or that you didn’t want me to see _your_ essence because you were hiding something. Sometimes I thought you didn’t quite trust me enough yet...but sometimes it felt like something else.”

Crowley feels a wave of fear go through him. He’d earned some of this, then. This distrust that had hurt Aziraphale worse than the sting of rejection, though he’d caused that too, selfishly. They hadn’t talked, he remembers, not all those years ago. He’d never told Aziraphale what he should have. And Aziraphale had had as much time as he had to turn over everything in his mind.

“Angel,” he says, carefully. “That’s quite the list of possibilities. Put in...a lot of thought, you have.”

“You looked so disgusted when I asked,” Aziraphale’s voice sounds small, afraid. Crowley sighs, tightens his arms around him. Silence here is not OK, Crowley realizes. He will have to explain.

“No,” he says. “Not disgusted. Never _disgusted_. Not by you. Not possible.”

“So, then…”

“I just kind of figured...angel, demon, probably explode.”

“You said before you were afraid it might be dangerous if they touched. But you didn’t even want to _see_ , Crowley. I wanted to see every part of you. To share myself with you...but you didn’t want that. And I thought about it--I couldn’t _not_ think about it in Heaven. I...missed you so much, but I wondered if I had been a fool.”

“Aziraphale, no...Eh, ’s not—look, you’re right, in a way. I didn’t—I didn’t want _you_ to look. Thought _you’d_ be disgusted. Or put off or something. I’m a demon, Aziraphale. It’s—well, there’s bound to be some damage there, isn’t there? Something ugly. Didn’t want you to see.”

“It’s just _you_ , my darling, whatever’s there. It’s just you. You could never be ugly to me.”

Crowley gulps, nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. But you see? I never...Aziraphale, there is _nothing_ wrong with you. You’re perfect. You’re...just you.” He looks down at Aziraphale, sees tears on his face and brushes them away again. “You’re what you should be, you know?”

“No. Crowley...you wouldn’t be the only one to—to—find me disgusting. If you did, I mean. It wouldn’t be just you.”

Something jagged and dark flares through Crowley. “I should kill every angel in Heaven,” he says.

“Crowley, don’t say such things!”

“And you! Who said that to you, Aziraphale? Was it Gabriel? That new little wanker, Sandalphon?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer.

“Fucking pricks,” Crowley says, thinking about the angry, contorted face, the _this is unauthorized_. “Why they have to tear down everything they didn’t think to build. Bastards. All of them.”

Aziraphale moves, then, his body going tight, drawing in. He’s crying again, in earnest. Crowley wraps his arms around him.

“Hey—I’m not really gonna—”

“No, that’s not it. It’s just...I can feel _Her_ love. I can feel it now. I couldn’t when I was there. But it’s here, and it’s so _constant_. I almost didn’t notice, didn’t think until I just told you about what that meant. I’m so sorry, Crowley. I thought I couldn’t...I mean, I felt it, but I just couldn’t trust myself. And when you didn’t say, I told myself that you didn’t want _me_ to. That you wouldn’t want...I hurt you. I keep hurting you. I don’t know how I could have questioned it. But I _know_ you love me. How I ever could have believed...”

Crowley doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stop him from talking, repeating himself, he just holds him, lets him talk, lets him cry. When Aziraphale stops speaking, stops shaking with it, he doesn’t move at all, and Crowley realizes that he’s sliding into sleep.

* * *

Days and nights fall apart. Aziraphale is conscious of when there’s sun, of when it’s dark. He remembers the shame of Crowley finding him, the relief of his return, of his embrace. The lightening of the weight on him, at Crowley’s words. The boys had been punished by _humans_. The wars had been directed by Hell. Crowley was blameless, as untouched as he’d always appeared by the stain of true evil. It lifted Aziraphale out of so much, but at the same time, it only intensified his anger and frustration that he could not will away what he felt and be happy, be Crowley’s, be the Aziraphale of a hundred and twenty years before, who Crowley had loved. Who had believed, unthinkingly, that Crowley loved him.

Aziraphale thinks, too, of Heaven. He’d largely put it away, what it meant that he’d gone against them, that they’d cast him out without casting him down: He didn’t know what he was anymore. Not really. He hadn’t _changed_ , exactly, since leaving. But was he an angel? He certainly didn’t have the might of Heaven behind him, no longer felt any certainty that what he’d been created to do was _good_ , exactly. He was, honestly, glad to be done with it all. But what did it leave? He’d meant it when he told Crowley the decision had been easy. Once he’d seen that Heaven did things he believed wrong, it had been easy for Aziraphale to decide he didn’t want to participate, easy to decide he’d go against them for a chance at another glimpse of Crowley, another moment on Earth. But he’d thought it would end there. That that fulfillment would be fleeting, if it came; that no matter what, he’d be killed, and there would be no more decisions after this one, nothing else to reckon with.

He’d been lucky. Hadn’t he?

Next to him is Crowley, still sleeping. His hair glows in the sun. He is beautiful and good. This is not in question. There is no reason to question it, no possibility left of such a thing.

Neither of them have left this bed for however long it’s been since Aziraphale fell apart. Crowley has not wavered. That has only been Aziraphale. Aziraphale had been confused, and more so still, because he hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Heaven was wrong. They’d just been wrong. About the Earth, about the Great Plan, about Crowley. About Aziraphale? If he can see that, if he can let himself look at it, he might see other things as well. It will hurt. He knows it will hurt. His breath catches. Not now. Not yet.

“Angel?” Crowley is there. He will be there. When Aziraphale sees what’s really before him, Crowley will be there, too. Aziraphale will see him too, clearly; and Crowley will see Aziraphale. Maybe he already does. But one day, Aziraphale will not be ashamed.

Aziraphale smiles. “Let’s get up,” he says. “Let’s go out. We could have lunch.”

He watches the smile break across Crowley’s face.

“Yeah?” he says. Aziraphale kisses him, the sharp cheekbone, once, twice, the way he had when he’d kissed him that first time with love and those early stirrings of desire he hadn’t recognized. Crowley’s hand moves on his arm. It doesn’t hurt. For some reason, Aziraphale is terribly grateful that it doesn’t hurt.

They dress. They walk out, take the stairs. Outside, it’s gray, cold, but not raining. Crowley picks up his iPhone, taps at it, sighs.

“Is there a problem?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley shakes his head, hand closing over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Eh, it’s nothing,” he says, shrugging.

But Aziraphale checks his, too. It’s been three days, he sees. And Anathema has had a lot to say.

_I did it. Newt went home. I’m not sure how I feel. Is it weird that I don’t feel anything?_

_Except relief. I’m weirdly glad it’s over. I miss him, but I’m glad it’s over. I just need space. I need to think._

Then, the next evening, when Aziraphale hadn’t replied:

_Do you think it was selfish of me?_

_Aziraphale? Where are you? I went by the shop and it was dark and closed. I looked for your aura and I didn’t see it._

_Hope everything’s OK. Are you even getting these?_

_I’m sorry, dear,_ Aziraphale writes. ( _Always sorry_ , he thinks.) _I’m afraid I went away unexpectedly. I’m glad you did what was right for you. It’s not selfish at all. Sometimes we have to make the right decisions for ourselves, even if it’s not what other people want from us. Sometimes we need to attend to our own needs. It’s good that you understand that while you’re still so young._

_Oh thank god. I thought you were avoiding me! Seemed ominous to have an angel avoiding you. Are you back now? Do you think I might come say goodbye?_

“What’s going on?” Crowley says.

“Anathema,” Aziraphale says. “She’s going home. I’ve...said I’d meet her for tea later. Say goodbye.” He smiles, looking up from his mobile at Crowley. “Would you want to join?”

“Did she ask for me?”

“Ah, no.”

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to it. Ritz?”

Aziraphale nods. The sun is breaking through the clouds, only in one spot, but it’s so bright. It seems like it’s easier to breathe beneath it. He takes Crowley’s arm, tucks his own around it. Crowley doesn’t look at him, but Aziraphale can see how he grins. It makes him happy too. But there’s something, still, something that hurts about that. It doesn’t matter. Aziraphale will figure it out. It will be all right. Crowley meant it when he said he wasn’t going anywhere. Aziraphale could say anything to him. If he could only figure out what to say.

Lunch is easy, good. It’s late when they finish, almost time for tea, and Crowley walks Aziraphale to the cafe across from his bookshop after. Aziraphale presses his whole body against Crowley’s as they walk down Piccadilly. It attracts attention; he doesn’t care.

“Will you kiss me?” he whispers. Crowley has not, not since before he broke, or rather, not since before he showed it to Crowley.

Crowley stops, wraps his arms around him, pulling him flush against his body. They’re in the middle of Piccadilly. Crowley’s lips meet his. Someone whoops at them out of a passing car. It doesn’t matter. Aziraphale opens his lips, pushing into him, but still hesitating. It’s all right though; Crowley’s tongue finds his, his ordinary human tongue against Aziraphale’s. It’s not clear to Aziraphale how long the kiss goes on. People jostle against them. Someone whistles. Aziraphale feels Crowley lift one arm, almost certainly to make a rude gesture, but he replaces it, pulling Aziraphale even closer when he does. Crowley feels controlled, deliberate, but even so, this isn’t decent. This isn’t OK out in public like this. Aziraphale doesn’t care. It feels good, and there’s no one to impress or fear. It’s their world as much as anybody’s now.

Crowley pulls back just enough to say, “I love you. You’re _everything_.”

* * *

Anathema quirks an eyebrow as Aziraphale enters. She’d seen them, then. Aziraphale feels his face growing hot.

“How are you, dear?” he says.

“Wow,” she says. “You guys were practically holding up traffic. I mean, if anything could. I thought you were supposed to be an angel.”

“You do understand that I’m...that I’ve been fired, so to speak?” Aziraphale says. He’s never told anyone, he realizes, never had to. After he’s spoken, he wonders if she will be horrified, will not trust him. He lifts his chin slightly, and adds, “I conduct my personal life as I see fit.”

“Well, good for you,” Anathema says. “I’d more or less assumed as much.” She waggles her eyebrows and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh, relieved.

“What does that mean, then?” she says. “I didn’t know an angel could be fired. I mean, unless...you’re not a demon, though.”

“No, indeed. I’ve no idea what it means, either. I believe I’m the first,” Aziraphale smiles, as if he’s proud. He isn’t really, but he doesn’t let it wilt under her intense gaze.

“Well,” Anathema says. “It seems like I’ve gotten advice on independence from the best of them.”

* * *

He thinks about it, as they leave the cafe, as he helps Anathema with her suitcase into a car waiting for her. She kisses his cheek, grips his hand, and darts gracefully into the back seat. Aziraphale waves, and she’s gone.

He wonders if he’ll ever hear from her again. Wonders if Newt will go after her. If she will eventually come to a place where she’s learned to think for herself, and if those thoughts will ever lead her back to England.

Aziraphale knows that he would choose Crowley a thousand times, in any universe.

But what does it mean that there are still things that he’s not saying to Crowley? What does it mean that it still feels, even with the certainty of the love between them, that there are still roads they have not gone down together, still secrets, still things that Aziraphale feels he needs.

Things Crowley cannot give him. And there are other things, things he can’t give Crowley, that he once had. Again there’s the feeling, of something, something not quite right, a prickle of pain even in what has been realized. Aziraphale’s foundations are still shaky, yes, but this is something else.

He walks back to Mayfair alone. When he enters, he can hear Crowley in the back, watering his plants and talking to them. He’d told Aziraphale that at first he’d shouted at them, then, as he’d studied for his role as a nanny, he’d tried other ways of speaking. Now there’s a low murmur, stern but not unforgiving. Crowley’s mobile lights up on the coffee table, and Aziraphale glances at it, seeing a string of messages on the home screen.

 _It’s nothing,_ Crowley had said that morning, when Aziraphale had asked. Now he can’t resist looking at it a bit closer. There’s a tangle of messages from Warlock Dowling and Harriet Dowling.

Harriet:

_Warlock and I are sorry you won’t be able to join us, but of course we understand you’d want to spend your Christmas together. Have a very happy one!_

Warlock:

_Why don’t you just bring him with you?_

_Mom said you could._

Harriet:

_If I’m not overstepping, I’d just like to add that of course your partner would be welcome to join us. I understand if this doesn’t change anything, but Warlock reminded me that I hadn’t been quite clear on that point. We’d love to get to know him._

For some reason, Aziraphale’s breath feels shaky. He feels still, too warm, a heavy feeling descending over him. Shame.

“Angel?” Crowley has come up the hall, holding a spray bottle. He looks between Aziraphale and his mobile.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t mean—but it was chiming and I—”

Crowley steps closer, his hand falling on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “ ’S all right.”

“Why don’t you go?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley looks down at the messages. “You’d want...you think you’d be OK with that?” He steps around in front of Aziraphale, looking at his face.

“I—” Aziraphale hesitates. He ought to meet the boy properly, he supposes. Get to know these other people who love Crowley. But the idea of it is overwhelming. _Not yet_ , he thinks. He pictures them looking him over, wondering what Crowley could possibly want with someone like him. _Maybe not ever._

“It’s all right,” Crowley says. “I’d rather be with you, just us. You know I don’t care about Christmas.”

“But the boy. Warlock. You care about Warlock.”

“Of course I do, yeah, but I care about you too. It’d be a _lot_ of people. Americans. Unfamiliar place and everyone staring at us...and I’d be Ash. Have to talk like that even to you. You know? ’S a lot.”

“I could stay here,” Aziraphale says, softly. “And you could go.” _Should go._ But what is he saying?

Crowley frowns. “Aziraphale?”

He doesn’t want to take it back, he realizes. Yes, that would be...good. Yes, that’s what he needs. A bit of time. On his own. He takes a sharp breath and sits down on the couch. Crowley hesitates, then joins him.

“Angel? You don’t...want to do Christmas?”

“I love you,” Aziraphale begins.

“Yeah, love you too.” Crowley’s hand is on his back, gently rubbing; he’s peering around into Aziraphale’s face, and Aziraphale makes himself smile before he looks away, and feels tears filling up his eyes. He doesn’t want it to be this. But this is all it is now, all of this, right on the surface, tears and hurt and pity and concern. “Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “What is it? You know you can say anything to me.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says. “My dearest, I do know, yes.” _But I don’t want to. I don’t want to ask it of you. Don’t want you to see me this way. For it to become all we are._

Crowley leans forward, reaching around with his other hand and drawing Aziraphale into a hug. Aziraphale grabs him and collapses on to his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you so much. You’ve been so considerate, such a great help to me.” He pulls back to his original position, pressing his eyes closed as he sits up straight, bracing himself.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley sounds panicky now. Which is _not_ what Aziraphale wants. He will have to save this, to be swift and sure and careful. Maybe it will hurt less this way. He turns to look at Crowley. It seems the least he can do.

“Crowley, my dearest. I would like for you to go see Warlock, if you’d like. I’d like...I’d like some time to myself.”

Crowley frowns. “Right,” he says. “All right. So I’ll, uh, I’ll let them know. You’re sure you want to do that at _Christmas_?”

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, I think...soon. I think we’d better. Soon.”

“So I’ll come back for the New Year, then. We’ll go out for dinner. Champagne.”

Aziraphale gulps.

“Crowley...I think...no, dear. I think perhaps I may need longer than that.”

“Wh—?” Crowley begins. He lets go of Aziraphale, studying him. “What’s wrong?”

“I just need time. Need to...sit with some things. Crowley, I—I don’t even know what I am anymore. Please, could you try to see? And there’s so much that I couldn’t possibly expect you to understand, to _help_ me with, that I still need to—”

“You could talk to me, Aziraphale. I’m here. I’ll hear anything. I’d love for you to tell me. Tell me what happened. What they did to you.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Yes, but I—I don’t want to. Crowley. I’m _afraid_. I need to do this on my own. I don’t want to do this to you any longer.”

“Do _what_ to me? Send me away? Then _don’t_ , Aziraphale. Don’t, please. Not again. _Please_.” Aziraphale’s chest clenches. Tears are flowing freely down his face and he pushes at them angrily. It’s hard enough without Crowley making it harder.

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

“Nothing you’ve ever done hurts as much as that. Do you know that?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale feels his whole face crumple with shame as he thinks of the times he’s sent Crowley away in the past. _Selfish._ The monastery, when he hadn’t until it was too late, until the act had a meaning it shouldn’t have. Then, of course, at the bookshop, the two of them newly reunited, Crowley still glimmering with misplaced hope Aziraphale had promptly dashed. This time is different, but it will still hurt. He turns away from Crowley, not wanting him to see how he sobs.

“I don’t _want_ to, Crowley. I don’t want to hurt you. But I _need_ —please. I haven’t had any space to just—you don’t know what it was like being there. In Heaven.”

“No, I don’t, because you won’t tell me! God knows I tried not to pressure you, Aziraphale. But if you’re really ready to...to call things off just because you don’t want to talk about it, then yeah, I’ll argue with you. Don’t you think we’re worth an argument? Worth a—a difficult conversation? Don’t you think we’re worth trying for? You could just _try_ me. Whatever you have to say. Whatever you think you’ll be doing to me. It can’t be as bad as ending things. Nothing could be that bad.”

“No, no, darling. I’m not calling things off! I would never want to...I _love_ you. I’ll always love you more than anything. I could never want to say goodbye to you. _Never_. Haven’t I told you that? I don’t want us to be apart, my _dearest_. Oh, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But you can’t tell me the truth? You can’t even tell me when you want to see me?”

“I don’t _know_. I don’t _want_ you to go. I just need some time on my own. To sort things out. That’s all. One day, I _promise_ I’ll find you, or...or call you. If you still want.”

“Of course I’ll _bloody want_ , angel. Don’t say stuff like that.”

“It’s not fair to you, I know. But I think it’s better…”

“It’s not better.”

“You don’t know that, Crowley.”

“Because you won’t tell me!”

There’s a silence. Aziraphale reaches out and wraps his hand around Crowley’s. His touch is so familiar, comforting, even now. He hopes Crowley will feel that too. “Please?” he says.

Crowley nods. “So....when are we doing this?

“I’m not certain. Christmas isn’t for a couple of weeks yet.” Anathema is flying to America now, Aziraphale thinks. Crowley will fly to America. Aziraphale will be alone.

“I could, uh, drive you back to the shop, if you want,” Crowley says. He sounds like he’s swallowing the words even as he talks. “If you want to go now.”

“Not tonight,” Aziraphale says. “I want...to be with you tonight.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “Aziraphale—”

“Do you think…I want you to know that I mean it: I will never be done with you unless you want it. This is temporary, what I’m asking for, and it is _not_ any sort of punishment.”

“I know,” Crowley says. “I believe you.”

“You’ve been so good to me.” _Better than I deserve_ , Aziraphale thinks.

Crowley stares. He leans forward and pulls Aziraphale to him again. Aziraphale moves against him. Crowley doesn’t pull away when Aziraphale leans back, moves so that his back is against the seat cushion and they’re lying down together. Aziraphale strokes his hand over Crowley’s back and shoulders. He’s tense, almost shuddering, but Aziraphale feels almost relaxed. If they can do this, he thinks, then it will be all right. He doesn’t know when, exactly, but someday.

“So good,” he repeats. Crowley’s head moves, turning so his cheek brushes Aziraphale’s, his lips pressing into Aziraphale’s jawline, kissing the soft flesh there. Aziraphale strokes the same spot on his back insistently. This will mean something, if they do it. A kind of promise.

Crowley seems to realize what Aziraphale is doing. He gasps a little.

“Do you want—”

“If you will show them to me, I would be very honored. If you don’t want to, well, then, it’s perhaps something for another time,” Aziraphale says. He turns and presses his lips to Crowley’s, feeling his mouth captured as the air shifts around them, a new weight descending, a new pressure engulfing him. Crowley has covered them with his wings.

“And if I don’t let you go?” Crowley says. His eyes are yellow; a tear slides down his cheek.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, brushing the tear away. “I wish I didn’t need this. I wish I could stay just here until everything just sorted itself out. You would let me if you thought it would help, wouldn’t you? You’d keep hold of me and not move until the feathers come in on top of each other until it hurt.”

Crowley groans assent.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Aziraphale says. He lets his fingers hover over the edges of the fine, well-kept feathers. The idea of causing Crowley pain is repulsive to him, and he hates that he’s mentioned it at all, hates that it even occurred to him, but he knows why it has. It’s what he’s doing to Crowley already. Holding him back, hurting him.

“You’d never. I know. You don’t hurt me, Aziraphale. You don’t.”

Aziraphale sighs. He knows he does hurt Crowley; he doesn’t mean to, but he does. He has to figure himself out so he can stop.

“Could I touch them?” Aziraphale asks. “You can say no. I understand. This isn’t really the best time, perhaps. But I—I’d be gentle.” _This time_ , his mind supplies. He forces the thought away, trying to see it for what it is, something that has nothing to do with reality or anything he wants.

Crowley laughs. “Of course you will. Touch them, angel. Do whatever you like. I’m yours. All of me. Everything.”

“Is it what you want, though?” Aziraphale says, afraid of overstepping, of taking advantage, of manipulating Crowley with the depth of his need. “I don’t want to if you don’t. I know it isn’t how you’d probably imagined...”

“Aziraphale. I...never thought we’d do anything like this. Even after we, even after everything else. If you touch them, I think maybe it’ll be like something that lingers. Like when angels—do they still do that? Bond over it, caring for each other’s wings?”

“I suppose.”

Crowley’s hands clench slightly on Aziraphale’s back. “You _suppose_?”

“Well, you can’t expect that they were exactly clamoring at _my_ wings.”

Crowley frowns. Aziraphale feels suddenly cold inside again at the thought of Heaven, other angels. He doesn’t want Crowley to ask. Not this, not now. Apart from Giriale, no one touched him there because they wanted to. He’d been included in no public grooming circles, even. Hadn’t seen enough of Heaven in his time there to be sure they still had them. There were just Gabriel’s hugs, Raphael’s cold healing, and Sandalphon’s searing punishments. He draws a shuddering breath.

“Go on then,” Crowley says. “Demons don’t, you know, don’t do this. I wonder if it will feel like that still.” Aziraphale rests a hand on Crowley’s wing, silky and warm. Crowley sighs.

“Did _you_ , then, before?” Aziraphale asks, sliding his hand down, carefully, Crowley’s feathers twitch a little, ruffling as if to draw Aziraphale to them to smooth them down again. Crowley’s breathing is loud, ragged, his body loose, molded to Aziraphale as if he’s been poured there. Aziraphale feels a kind of fierce tenderness descend over him. He knows they are talking about something difficult for Crowley, something that might hurt him if Aziraphale presses too hard. He longs to ask Crowley about his Fall, about what he remembers. But it doesn’t matter enough for him to do it.

“No,” Crowley says. “Just in the circles. Not with any one person. No...partner. But some of the others. I saw what it did, how they were with each other after.”

“You think it will change things? But it’s what you want?”

“Won’t change much, I don’t think. I already...we’re like...I mean...But yeah, I want it, angel.”

“Should we do it properly, then?” Aziraphale says. “Though they’re already so beautiful, really, Crowley. You do keep them so well.”

Crowley smiles, Aziraphale pulling back to get the full effect of his expression, proud and pleased.

“Sit up, then,” Aziraphale says, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss into the base of Crowley’s neck. “Let me do this for you. If you want.”

Crowley goes still. His arms tighten around Aziraphale. “Love you,” he says. “Love you so much, angel. So much.” He kisses Aziraphale’s jaw again. “Are you sure it’s what you want? You don’t have to.”

“It feels,” Aziraphale says, hesitantly. “Like a promise.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to make that promise to you, Crowley. I’ve wanted to for a long time. I can’t promise much, but...I can promise that I love you.”

“Yes, yes. That’s all I want, angel. That’s all I want. Give you anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter count has crept up...
> 
> I may have a delay getting the next couple of chapters out, but I'm going to do my best to stay on schedule. If you'd like to see what's keeping me so busy, I'll be posting a new story (much lighter) next Monday that you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638270/chapters/56734453%20rel=).
> 
> Also, wrote a [short little fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482492) this past weekend, if you're interested.


	17. Two Outcast Men We Were (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley begin their period of separation. Aziraphale struggles to figure out what he wants.
> 
> (Chapter title from Oscar Wilde’s “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: trust explored through sex; mentions of prison; self-blaming; intrusive thoughts; negative self-talk; anxiety; loneliness.
> 
> formatting issues fixed!

Aziraphale does not let Crowley groom him. They do not speak about it, after, or the next day when Aziraphale gathers his books and takes them to the bookshop, or the day after, when Crowley calls to say he’s leaving and Aziraphale goes to him to sit beside him in the Lyft, to walk him to airport security and kiss him goodbye, watching until he can’t see the flaming hair and swaying walk anymore. Crowley looks back at him and waves before he rounds the corner. Aziraphale waves back. And then he’s gone. Free. His chest heaves. _No, wait!_ , he wants to shout, to run after him. Instead he presses his lips together and turns to walk away.

The solitude doesn’t feel like it had the day before when Crowley was just across town. It does not feel like he’d expected it to feel when he’d asked for it. It feels like something heavy, crushing, bruising him from inside. He holds himself still, does not breathe on the ride back to the bookshop. Though the driver says nothing, Aziraphale can tell he’s alarmed by how still and silent his passenger has gone. When they arrive at the bookshop, Aziraphale gets out, moving mechanically. He remembers to smile and thank him, but inside, he collapses against the door. _Now what? Now what? You asked for this. Now what?_

He thinks of Crowley’s wings beneath his fingers. He’d carded through them carefully, as if they needed it, stroking each shining vane, reaching beneath to separate and smooth the sparse black down, so different from his own. His wings were warm to the touch, like the rest of him. Aziraphale’s chest felt full; it was almost as if he might explode. Briefly, he leaned forward and rested his head against Crowley’s clothed back.

“Feels so good,” Crowley said, as he sat back up and Aziraphale resumed moving down the scapulars. “It’s always kind of uncomfortable when you do it to yourself, you know? Hard to get everywhere without pulling.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed the back of his neck, brushing his hair aside. He imagined Crowley grooming himself alone in the crowded dankness of Hell. He pressed his face lightly to one wing even as he kept his hands moving. He wanted to touch each feather.

When Aziraphale had finished each wing, Crowley had turned to Aziraphale, shaking. He kissed Aziraphale, his whole body falling forward onto him, and Aziraphale felt the reverence of it, even as he felt something light inside of him give way to laughter. Crowley laughed, too, but only a little, he’d fallen to kissing Aziraphale’s neck instead. Aziraphale did not manifest his wings as Crowley slid his out of sight. He let Crowley loosen his bow-tie, but he removed it himself, opened his shirt to give him more to kiss, his hands cupping the fiery silk of Crowley’s head.

“Crowley,” he whispered, shuddering under the application of his tongue.

“Do you want me to do yours?” Crowley’s voice sounded choked.

“No. You don’t need to promise me anything.”

“I will,” Crowley said. “I’ll promise you anything. Anything, angel.”

It wouldn’t be right, Aziraphale thought, to let Crowley give him this too. Not now, not when he was like this: incomplete and broken, a heavy weight to be shackled to, something to drag along behind.

“Not yet,” Aziraphale whispered. And he wasn’t imagining the relief that passed over Crowley’s face, because Crowley didn’t argue.

“Yeah, it’s only if you want,” Crowley said. His fingers found Aziraphale’s. “I know it’s not...it’s not really the same thing for...for us. For both of us.”

Aziraphale gasped. How could Crowley still believe that, even after everything?

“No,” he whispered. “No one Falls anymore, my dear.” Crowley stared down at him. Aziraphale wondered if the words had landed harshly, if they implied that others were spared what Crowley had not been. But it was important, so he pressed on. “I’m not afraid of what would happen to me if you did. I’m not afraid of you. Of anything about you. I don’t know if you need to hear this or not, still. But, well, there you have it.” Aziraphale had meant it; though it had been difficult to understand, the realization only dawning properly as he spoke: He wasn’t afraid of Crowley. He was afraid of something else. Something bigger than both of them, and outside of his control.

Crowley did not move for a long moment. Then Aziraphale felt him stir again, his leg moving, shifting as he braced one arm to look down at Aziraphale. Aziraphale shifted too, so their legs slotted against each other. Crowley brought a hand up to his face, trailing down his cheek, tracing over his eyes. He kissed Aziraphale’s nose, the skin on either side of it, his chin, his throat, his chest. Aziraphale waited for him to lift his head, then cupped his chin and pulled him into a kiss. He moved his leg, feeling Crowley twitch, his cock stiffening against Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale pulled back a little. Crowley’s eyes were closed, pressed tight. “Sorry,” he said. But Aziraphale ran his hands down his back, cupping his buttocks and pressing him closer. He moved his thigh again and Crowley’s hips moved automatically in response, pressing into him. Crowley let out a gasp. “Bastard,” he murmured.

“Would you like to make love to me?” Aziraphale whispered. “I would so like to have you inside me again. Would you like that, too?”

Crowley hissed. The pressure against Aziraphale’s thigh grows. “Ngk. I—are you sure?”

“Very sure. Yes.” He slid his hand under Crowley’s shirt, fingers against warm skin. Crowley sat up and removed it in a fluent, easy motion. Then he leaned forward and unbuttoned the rest of Aziraphale’s, pushing it off his shoulders.

“We’ll only do what you want,” Crowley said. “You don’t need to prove anything.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “Please believe me: I want this.”

Crowley bent forward and rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale’s chest. “Love you so much,” he whispered, kissing the hair there, trailing his fingers through it before he leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth, trailing his tongue over it and caressing the other with his fingers. Aziraphale was completely hard now, and he shifted under Crowley, straining for friction.

“I’ve got you,” Crowley said. He moved his body down on the couch, kissing Aziraphale’s stomach, the trail of soft hair at his abdomen, before he opened his trousers and shoved them down and off. “OK?”

Aziraphale nodded. “You too,” he says. “Please, Crowley. Show me. Let me see you, too.” Crowley swallowed, his eyes sweeping over Aziraphale, lingering on his swollen cock. He miracled away his own trousers. Aziraphale couldn’t resist sitting up, reaching out for the narrow hips, pulling him closer even as he fell back again against the couch. Aziraphale hadn’t had any particular intention when he’d reached for him, and Crowley let himself be pulled in, so that at first he was straddling Aziraphale’s thighs, then his stomach, before finally coming to rest on Aziraphale’s chest with his thighs around Aziraphale’s head. Crowley looked slightly gobsmacked as Aziraphale leaned forward to take his cock into his mouth. It didn't occur to him that it might be a weighted act. It was just Crowley, and he was there, and so close, and Aziraphale wanted to give him pleasure, to make him happy, to let him forget about everything else, just for now.

“May I?” he said.

Crowley gave a sharp exhale and nodded, so Aziraphale slid forward and parted his lips slowly, letting them fold over his teeth as he took Crowley’s cock into his mouth. Crowley’s hands fell onto his shoulders, caressing gently, soothingly.

“Are you sure this is all right?” Crowley said, suddenly, bracing one hand against the back of the couch. “Aziraphale, this is…”

Aziraphale pulled back, and licked his lips carefully before responding.

“It’s lovely,” he said. “For me. Do you...not like it?”

“Yeah, I do, it’s just...it’s a lot, Aziraphale. Are you absolutely sure it’s not too much?”

“I’m quite certain. It’s all right, dear. Can you trust that? Can you let yourself enjoy it?”

Crowley nodded. “Not going to hurt you,” Crowley said. “You know that, you have to know that. Tell me you know.”

“Oh, my dearest, I know. I don’t _want_ you to hurt me. I want you to take care of me like you always do. Such good care. And I want to do the same for you. All right?”

Aziraphale leaned forward to kiss the crease of where Crowley’s leg joined his hip, to kiss along his flat belly. Crowley’s hands pressed into the flesh of his back.

“Yeah,” he said. “Take care of you. ’S all I want.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and captured the head of his cock in his lips again, and licked at the slit. He pressed forward, taking him deeper and began moving his head, increasing his speed, keeping his tongue working at the slit, at the ridge along the underside, fingers stroking his buttocks, pulling him in.

“Fuck!” Crowley shouted. His hips jerked, his cock pressing into the top of Aziraphale’s mouth as he came, bracing himself with one arm against the back of the couch. Aziraphale focused on the metallic flavor of Crowley’s spend as he tried to stay calm, to keep the motion of his head constant so he wouldn’t cause Crowley to hurt him, so he wouldn’t squander his trust. Crowley was always so careful with him, even now, Aziraphale could see the way he pushed down into the back of the couch, digging his feet into the cushions to keep his thighs from clenching too hard around Aziraphale’s head and neck. Aziraphale swallowed, pulling off slowly when Crowley finished, staring at him with wide yellow eyes, pupils blown huge. Crowley’s fingers brushed lightly against Aziraphale’s face, his tender lips.

“Angel. Was it really OK?”

Aziraphale reached up to touch Crowley’s face, nodding, then tugged him down and wrapped his arms around him, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders.

“You’re so gentle,” Aziraphale murmured. He could hear the wonder in his own voice. Could feel it anew, like it was a revelation.

Crowley exhaled, grinning, and ground his hips against Aziraphale’s, making him groan. “Before I was interrupted,” he said, kissing his way slowly back down Aziraphale’s chest and stomach to his straining cock, laving and sucking, wrapping his hand around the base of Aziraphale’s penis when he began to convulse slightly.

“Not yet,” Crowley whispered.

Crowley pressed a kiss to his inner thigh, and drew his legs apart, bending one up, burying his face deeper, lips to his rim. He looked like a supplicant, devoted, worshipping. Aziraphale was overwhelmed at the sight of him, the way he kissed him softly there before opening his mouth and beginning to caress with his tongue, forked now. He let his head fall back, let his eyes close as he felt the first breach.

“Yes,” he whispered, so Crowley wouldn’t stop and ask if it was all right. Crowley’s tongue pressed again, deeper this time. “Oh, yes. Just like that, Crowley. Oh, you always know. You...so lovely, so perfect.”

He cried out when Crowley pressed slick fingers into him and all but shoved his hand away. “Please,” he said. “Please, you know I’m ready. I want you, all of you, please, Crowley. I want you to have me this way. Let me hold you inside of me.”

Crowley made a noise between a grunt and a whine and pushed himself up, bracing himself and holding onto the back of Aziraphale’s thigh as he pushed in slowly, his cock miracled with something slick. Aziraphale closed his eyes. There was a kind of peace then. For just a moment. So different than when he pushed into Crowley, the pressure of it overwhelming his senses. This was more like finding home. _He was all over you... Inside of your corporation even._ Gabriel had said. Aziraphale smiled and heaved a huge sigh. _Yes,_ he thought. _Of course he was, yes, yes._ Something burned in his chest, so he put his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, ran his hands over his body, grounding himself in the moment. “Thank you,” he said. “You can move now. Whenever you’re ready.”

Crowley dropped his upper body, kissing Aziraphale’s chest. He slid a hand between them to press his thumb against the head of Aziraphale’s cock, stroking him while he kept still inside him. _Disgusting_ , Gabriel had called it. But it wasn’t. It was right, and good, and beautiful, and Aziraphale would never have enough of him. Aziraphale groaned, shifting under him, feeling himself growing closer. Crowley let go of him and only then did he begin to thrust. Aziraphale watched him, the long limbs over him, the evidence of their exertion so clear; each muscle and tendon visible through his skin, the angles of his face changed with his pleasure. Aziraphale’s bliss came on gradually, each nudge against his prostate taking him higher, until he moaned with it, quiet at first, not realizing the sound was coming from him, that his muscles had clenched, until it was damp between them and he was shaking and Crowley was rocking inside him, his body stuttering against Aziraphale as he came too. Aziraphale sighed with the fullness, reached for him, guiding him to lower himself against Aziraphale’s chest without pulling out.

“Love you,” Crowley whispered.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said. “ _Crowley_.” He said the name like a benediction, and Crowley stared. Aziraphale touched his cheek, kissed the top of his head. “I don’t want this to end.”

Crowley pressed his eyes closed and said nothing. Aziraphale felt him go tense, but he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s chest before he pulled out. He didn’t look at Aziraphale as he folded his body into a hunched, seated position, lifted his hand to snap his fingers.

“Don’t miracle it away,” Aziraphale said. “Not from me. Not yet.” Crowley frownEd, but his miracle didn’t extend to Aziraphale. There was a silence. Aziraphale reached out and trailed a hand down Crowley’s spine.

“In the morning,” Aziraphale said, “I think I’ll go back to the bookshop. Get some things. Perhaps find a nice vacation spot to clear my head.”

Crowley nodded. He looked angry, lost. Aziraphale swallowed, pressing his lips together.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Was it all right?”

“Of course it was bloody brilliant,” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale gulped. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Should I go tonight?”

“No,” Crowley pressed his eyes closed. He didn’t look at Aziraphale when he spoke. His voice sounded tired. His hand slid across the couch and landed on Aziraphale’s thigh, palm up, waiting. Aziraphale took it. “Come to bed, angel. Let me hold you.”

* * *

Aziraphale puts his head into his hands and rests, at the table in his back room, trying to focus on his miracled cocoa, his book. But his miracled cocoa is never as good as the handmade sort, and the book, _Gone Girl_ , is an absolute travesty of a thing that almost induces Aziraphale to write off modern literature entirely. When he finishes it, he takes it back to the front of the shop, slides it back into its place on the shelf and hopes someone will buy it soon.

He cannot stop thinking of Crowley. He’ll still be on the plane. Will the Dowlings meet him at the airport? Will he change his clothes before he arrives somehow? Aziraphale had not asked him. They’d kissed at the airport, nothing special, just a kiss. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t for this kiss to feel like one of many; or maybe it wasn’t for this kiss to feel so sad. Crowley’s kisses had never disappointed him before. So he’d only let him break the kiss, let him turn and walk away, his stomach clenching, heart thudding, hand itching to reach out and grasp Crowley, turn him around and kiss him again, differently this time: a kiss that meant _stay_ , not a kiss that meant _goodbye._

 _But it wasn’t that_ , he reminds himself. _It hadn’t meant goodbye. Had it?_

He heaves a huge sigh, feels the familiar burning behind his eyes, and the bell at the door clangs. He has customers.

They are, as ever, a poor distraction. But at least there is something distracting him; at least there is something to do, someone to speak to. He opens the shop everyday for a while, goes to dinner at the Ritz at nights, the maître d' looking surprised to see him two, three times in a row. At four and five, he simply greets Aziraphale and shows him to his usual table.

Aziraphale gets a text from Anathema he hadn’t expected, letting him know she’d spoken with her mother, and that the talk would, indeed, have to be its own reward, as her mother had been furious when Anathema had told her she’d quit, had refused to pursue whatever was in the second book of prophecies. ( _Turns out she knew about the second book, and was just expecting me to fall in line_ , Anathema had written. _You were right. Christmas alone it is._ )

 _Christmas alone, indeed,_ Aziraphale thinks.

 _I’m so sorry, my dear_ , he replies. He wishes she were here, that the two of them might have been able to have a miserable Christmas together. But perhaps it would have been unbearably awkward. Certainly it won’t help to suggest it now. Aziraphale could hardly put Crowley on a plane to the States and then go there himself a week later without any intention of seeing him. Oh, it’s a big place and all, yes, and Anathema is currently in California, while Aziraphale has been given to understand that the Dowlings live somewhere in northern Virginia, but it’s really more the principle of the thing.

He thinks of texting Crowley, of asking him how his trip had gone, how he’d found Warlock and the family. If he’s having a nice time. But he doesn’t. He supposes he’d hoped Crowley would text him, would stay in touch in some small way. But he hadn’t asked. So he shouldn’t be disappointed that no such message has come.

Aziraphale attends the theater, visits museums, discovers a lovely thing called the Glyndebourne Opera House in Sussex that is, unfortunately, closed for the season.

It all makes him feel terribly lonely, and he doesn’t know that he’s really doing anything in the way of sorting anything out, or even thinking, except about Crowley.

On Christmas, he does get something, though. A lovely image of Ash and Warlock, faces close together to fit in the camera frame, smiling. _Happy Christmas, angel_ , comes the message. Twenty minutes later: _Miss you._

Aziraphale hasn’t stopped staring at the image, his eyes tracing over and over the beloved face. When the _Miss you_ comes through, his vision blurs and he sobs. It’s only been about a week; he could still ask Crowley to come back for the New Year. It would be so easy. Just a text—or a call, and he could hear that voice in his ear. Maybe Crowley would use a miracle, be there instantly.

He won’t ask, though. How could he?

_You look like you’re enjoying yourselves. Happy Christmas, my dearest. I love you._

_Nice being here a bit yeah. Love you. Always_

_This isn’t working_ , Aziraphale writes. _I need a change._

 _What do you mean_ (That one comes immediately.)

_I’m going to leave London._

It sounds impulsive. And there’s a certain sense in which it is. After all, he hadn’t actually decided on it until that moment. But it had been butting around in the back of his mind for a while now. Ever since he’d found Glyndebourne. He needs to get away, get somewhere quiet, out of all of the hubbub, away from the blinding, flashing lights, the traffic, the constant throng of people to run into, to step around, to offer a constant string of ignored apologies or shower with the grace he wears almost guiltily now.

A bubble with little dots appears at the bottom of the screen. It disappears. Reappears. Disappears again.

 _where to?_ Crowley asks, finally.

_I don’t know yet._

There are no more messages that night.

* * *

At the New Year, Aziraphale sits over his phone at midnight, listening to people shouting in the street and pretending to read the news while he hopes to hear from Crowley. It’s six hours earlier there, but…

Without thinking too much about it, but already feeling guilty and pathetic, he taps the little green phone icon at the bottom of the screen. Aziraphale has only ever called one number. He taps Crowley’s name.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice is warm, relaxed. Aziraphale should not have interrupted him. “Happy New Year!” Crowley adds.

“Yes, my dear. It is here. And you...you, as well.”

“Everything all right?” There it is again, that tension, that sound of worry. This is what he does to Crowley.

“Oh, fine. I just...wanted to hear your voice.” There’s a silence. Aziraphale presses his eyes closed. “I miss you,” he says, not at all sure it’s the right thing.

“Oh, angel, I miss you so much,” Crowley says, quickly, his voice breaking. When he speaks again, his voice is smooth again, overlaid with the kind of forced nonchalance Aziraphale can always hear. “What are you up to? Did you...did you leave London?”

“ _No._ I—I’m afraid I hardly know where to begin. I’m terribly at a loss. I haven’t done anything at all.”

Another silence. “But you’re all right?”

“Oh, of course. Tip-top. Tick—”

“Ahh, don’t say _tickety-boo_.” So Aziraphale does not. It’s never been awkward like this between them before, but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Have I interrupted you at something?” he asks, finally.

“Nah. Just getting ready for dinner. Just the three of us. Harriet, Warlock, and me. Going to make the dessert.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“I’ll have to do you one sometime.”

“Yes, please. Oh, I’d no idea you’d expanded your talents to include the culinary arts.”

“I know what you like,” Crowley says in a low voice that makes Aziraphale’s breath catch.

“Wicked thing.”

Crowley laughs. “Well, yeah…Nah, I just learned a few things for Warlock.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I see. I think I ought to go,” he says. “Let you get on with it.”

“Aziraphale, look. I—I don’t know what the rules are here. Was it all right I sent you a text at Christmas? Do you—do you want to hear from me like that?”

“Of course. Yes.”

“So, like texting once a week or what? Because left to my own devices I’d just—you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me. And obviously that’s not what—not what you want. I mean, I know it’s not permanent. But. Just. Or I could just let you get in touch when you want. That’s it, that’s the one. Yeah. Yeah?”

Aziraphale’s chest squeezes. He doesn’t know if he can speak. He gulps, takes a quiet, deep breath, and speaks slowly, calmly.

“No, something brief once a week is fine, I think. A text or call. Yes.”

“Right.” Crowley sounds surprised, sounds as if he’s trying not to. But when he speaks again, his voice is lighter, more relaxed. “Well then. Happy New Year, angel.”

“Happy New Year, Crowley.”

Aziraphale looks down at his mobile, the time still ticking away until he taps the little red circle, pressing his lips together against the crush of loneliness.

* * *

He finds the rental before he really knows where to look. He’d somehow stumbled across it while looking in Sussex, as if the Glyndebourne were still a possibility, but the cottage is along the coast, just outside some little village in the South Downs. The surrounding area is secluded, with little walking trails through the woods, and cliffside, by the water, though there’s a little village a mile or so away Aziraphale can walk to. Online, he finds a few restaurants with passable reviews in the local area. He rents the cottage for two weeks and hires one of those Lyfts to take him there. He expects it to be a shock, to feel jarring, to perhaps have another of those moments of resting with his back against the door, thinking _what now?_ , but instead, he finds himself excited upon arrival. The leafless trees stark against the white sky, the dry grass crunching beneath his feet, his breath making little puffs in the clean, cold air.

“Beautiful country,” says the driver, a big bearded man with sandy hair. Aziraphale nods.

“Indeed,” he says. He smiles, hefting his suitcase of books out of the car. “Thank you very much,” he adds. “A very happy new year to you.”

“And you,” the driver looks surprised. Aziraphale had been silent and fretful the whole way down.

Inside, Aziraphale finds three bedrooms, more or less as he’d expected. He’d thought he’d sit down on the window seat in one of them, feel the coolness around him as he reclined, reading and glancing out at the light snow flurries that had just begun. Instead, he finds himself standing in one of the other bedrooms where there’s a huge king-sized bed nestled between two full walls of books. He sighs happily. This will do quite nicely. In the kitchen, he makes himself a saucepan of cocoa and returns to the bedroom, wrapping himself in a tartan throw and settling in with a nice book. His mind feels still.

After reading for a nice long while (several days and nights at least), he resurfaces, stomach grumbling insistently. There is, of course, no food in the pantry, only things for tea and cocoa, so Aziraphale will have to make his way into the little town. He picks up his book and locates his mobile, thinking to use the Maps feature to find a walking trail that will get him where he needs to go via a more scenic (and safer) route than the narrow road the driver had taken to get him there. He doesn’t fancy walking along a narrow road where motorists wouldn’t be expecting to see anyone. All he needs now is to be discorporated again. The mobile, though, has gone dark and will not turn on. He sighs, remembering how the woman at the store had told him it had a long battery life, but would need to be charged every couple of days at least. Crowley had rolled his eyes (“Never charge mine,” he’d said. “Don’t know why they have to make everything so complicated.”), but Aziraphale had tried to take her advice. It has certainly been longer than a couple of days now. Has he ruined the device? And if Crowley has tried to reach him…?

His heart pounds. How long has it been already? _Has_ Crowley tried to reach him? Aziraphale miracles the charger from his bag, finds an outlet in the kitchen and plugs in the phone. Nothing happens. He sinks down at the table, pressing his hands to his face in dismay. After another moment, he stands up again and presses the switch on the outlet. He often forgets that step. He nearly weeps with relief when the phone lights up, the little apple on the screen bright white. He touches it with his fingertip and waits.

It has been three weeks. There are five messages. And a single missed call. Not overwhelming. But all Crowley.

January 9: _Hey angel. We chaperoned warlock on a school trip today. Tad’s trying to be more involved, he said. Not far from where we were that time we came to the states in 1860. God it was horrible. Remember?_

There’s a photo: Ash, Warlock, a little gold dog, a very enthusiastic Tad, and an annoyed-looking Harriet, and a bunch of other bored children and tense-looking adults standing outside of some sort of large house of a clearly municipal nature. Tad was waving his arms boisterously, but no one looked at all interested in what he was saying. Aziraphale almost feels for the man. Ash looks horribly, gleefully amused. Aziraphale jabs at the screen until he figures out how to zoom in on Crowley’s face. He stares at it for a long time.

The next message, sent just a moment later, reads: _Everyone says hello._

January 16: _Hey angel. I’m back in England. Just want you to know. Love you._

January 23: _Can we talk, just for a minute? Even if you just want to text? I had thought I’d hear something from you, but I get it if this is too much. Let me know if you want me to scale back and I will._

January 23. One missed call.

Aziraphale checks the date again. January 31. Crowley had given up, hadn’t tried him again on the 30th. He sets the phone down on the table, his hand shaking. How could he have done this to Crowley again? How could he have failed at even something as simple as this? He no longer wants food. He no longer wants anything at all.

After a few moments, he stands, tugs at his fawn-colored waistcoat (a bit rumpled from weeks of wear), and unplugs his phone. He will go and fetch something to eat; he will try to collect himself before he replies. He’d told Crowley he needed time. He hadn’t known how much, or exactly how he’d need to spend it. And wasn’t that what he’d done? Taken some time? And Crowley seemed to understand. Maybe he hasn’t been destroyed by it. He hadn’t said anything resentful or angry or indicative of some horrible downward spiral. He’s still just...trying. Which is good. Aziraphale sighs. It shouldn’t be so hard for him, but it’s all right. Aziraphale hadn’t _done_ anything to him. He’s trying, too. It’s important to see that. Crowley would see that. It would be fine. Yes, he’ll just...dinner. A bath perhaps. No need to think any further than that. Outside, he sees that there is an opening in the woods for a trail. Aziraphale doesn’t know if it actually leads to the village, but he decides to try it and see.

* * *

Crowley has pushed Aziraphale too far. He’d _known_ he shouldn’t have contacted him. But Aziraphale had _said_...why is it always so confusing? Why can’t Crowley do anything right anymore? If he ever had. Had Aziraphale felt pressured when he told him he’d come back to England? But he couldn’t have really expected Crowley to stay in America? Neither of them liked it much there after all, and it wasn’t as if he’d been planning to be nanny to Warlock again. It just wouldn’t have felt right _not_ to tell Aziraphale.

Perhaps he oughtn’t to have expected that Aziraphale would respond. Maybe this didn’t mean he was upset or didn’t want to hear from Crowley. Maybe he just didn’t want to say anything back.

But that wasn’t the impression he’d gotten. _I just wanted to hear your voice_ , Aziraphale had said. _I miss you. A text or call._ Crowley hadn’t suggested calling. That had been all Aziraphale.

At this range, he can tell Aziraphale is _there_ , that he’s in England, alive and whole. For a frantic moment, he thinks about that other angel he’d seen. _Giriale_ , Aziraphale had told him. Is it possible _she_ ’s here and he’s mistaking one angelic presence for another? But no, this is _Aziraphale_ , Crowley is certain. (As for her, he doesn’t know where she is at all, but nowhere near. Maybe not even on Earth.) He doesn’t go back to his flat right away. He’d somehow thought he’d head back when he heard from Aziraphale—but he hadn’t expected it to take so long, and somehow he finds himself strolling through a village somewhere in Oxford, dodging a group of rowdy kids who seem to turn up on the path ahead of him every few minutes just to get in his way. He’s been doing this, taking long drives from town to town, taking walks, buying sugary drinks at little cafes where Aziraphale would have loved the pastries, and they could have sat and eaten and drank and Aziraphale would have talked about how bloody charming everything was and Crowley would have listened to him, teased him, watched him eat, would have leaned across the table like it was 1793 and the only time he’d heard Aziraphale moaning in pleasure was over a plate of crepes.

But after a few days, when Aziraphale doesn’t reply, Crowley maneuvers the Bentley onto the dreaded M25 (which he’d had nothing to do with, by the way, aside from the singularly unhelpful signage), and heads back into London.

He sees to the plants, but they’d known better than to misbehave, and now his flat feels empty. He’d not spent much time there for years, until the failed Armageddon had put him out of a job, and after that, Aziraphale had been there so much…

It had barely been a day between Aziraphale heading back for the bookshop and Crowley finding a mysteriously vacant seat on a flight into DCA out of Heathrow. He hadn’t wanted to be there alone then. And he doesn’t now. He flops onto the couch, trying not to think about what had happened the last time he’d been on it.

He hesitates. Takes out his phone. This is it. One more time. He needs to swear it to himself or he won’t do it at all.

_Can we talk, just for a minute? Even if you just want to text? I thought I’d hear something from you, but I get it if this is too much. Let me know if you want me to scale back and I will._

Sent. God, but he’s an idiot. Why can’t he just leave him alone? After a while, Crowley stretches out along the couch, lying prone, arm dangling off one edge. Aziraphale is not lying here beneath him. Aziraphale had been here with him. Why isn’t Aziraphale here with him?

This isn’t going to work. Growling slightly, Crowley stands up, hoists his enormous TV off the wall mount, and stalks with it back to his bedroom. He opens the curtains to let in the weak gray light. He puts on _Golden Girls_ , wraps himself up in the collection of satin and velvet bedcovers, and feels the solitude pressing in on him from all sides.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t shown Crowley his wings. Instead, he’d let Crowley push him back onto the couch and kiss him. He’d taken Crowley into his mouth in a way that had scared Crowley, once he’d realized how vulnerable it made the angel. He couldn’t have moved away, didn’t have any control at all in that position. He’d had to make sure Aziraphale didn’t think that was what he wanted, or that he had to prove anything like that.

Crowley had been glad Aziraphale hadn’t shown his wings, hadn’t asked. It would have been too much. It already almost was. And even though he’d assured Crowley he wouldn’t Fall, even though what they’d done at Megiddo had rendered the concept rather toothless, it was hard to overcome six thousand years of telling yourself that this was the one thing you would never, _must_ never do. He couldn’t be expected to put that behind him in a matter of minutes. Not after everything else that had happened in such a few short days.

Aziraphale had said it felt like a promise, and Crowley would have wanted to hear Aziraphale’s, to say the same thing back. But it had been so much already for one night. And there were, as he’d once told Aziraphale, so many other things they could do.

He only hoped Aziraphale understood, only hoped Aziraphale hadn’t been disappointed.

But Aziraphale will not answer his texts. And now, Crowley worries that alone, Aziraphale has once again convinced himself that Crowley is not to be trusted, that Crowley does not love him.

He tries not to think of that night. But sometimes, it rushes him, out of nowhere. And here, in his bed, where they’d been for three days—here in this room—where he’d had one of the worst moments of his life when Aziraphale had said those awful words, that vacant look on his face, and Crowley had run out of the room in horror, in anguish, not thinking about how it would look. And then when he’d found him there after…he hadn’t been sure Aziraphale would ever come back from that. Had thought he’d lost him without even seeing it coming.

Crowley folds his body in, covers his head. He can hear the laugh track on the TV. He tries to concentrate on it. He resurfaces and tries to label people he knows as each of the Golden Girls. Tad, Harriet, Warlock, Anathema, Newt. Oscar.

He can’t place Aziraphale. The realization makes him smile. Aziraphale will surprise him again someday, he knows. And it will be good; it always is. He just needs to be patient.

* * *

Harriet had cornered him on New Year’s Day, when Warlock had gone with his father to visit Tad’s parents. It was the first time they’d been alone since he’d arrived.

“How are you doing, Ash?” she said across the kitchen table at lunchtime. “I mean, _really_?”

Crowley hadn’t been able to meet her eyes.

“I’m quite all right, dear. And yourself?”

Harriet didn't allow the dodge. “I was...expecting you to turn up with your partner, if you came at all,” she said softly. She pushed a bowl of salad across the table to Crowley, and he helped himself.

“When I talked to him about the holidays, he said he thought I should come alone,” he said. “Said he needed some...some time.”

“Ash—you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But what happened with the two of you? You were apart, before, right? And then he came _back_ from _somewhere_ and now…? Where was he? How long was he away?” She laid her hand over Ash’s. Crowley twitched slightly, but didn’t draw away. “It’s all right. I won’t judge. But it sounds like...Ash, look, don’t take this the wrong way, all right—did he get out of prison?”

“What? Of course not, he’s an angel,” Crowley snapped, without thinking. His heart pounded. _No one Falls anymore, Crowley_ , Aziraphale had said. But Heaven had known. _Prison_. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? _Prison_. Had they locked him away? He wished he knew what they’d done. Wished Aziraphale would let him make it up to him; it was because of him, whatever it was.

“I’m not judging!” Harriet said. “And, and, well, there are all sorts of things a person could go to prison for, after all. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just...I’m worried about you.”

“I don’t know what happened to him,” Crowley said, his voice breaking. “He won’t tell me.”

Harriet didn’t seem to know how to take that. She sat still for a moment, then patted Crowley’s hand. “And he didn’t want to spend the holidays together,” Harriet said, finally, her voice soft, sympathetic. “After he already left you once.”

 _Bugger._ Crowley could feel his eyes filling up. He couldn’t _do_ this here, not where he couldn’t even take off his glasses. What was wrong with him? Aziraphale had said it _wasn’t_ goodbye. They’d spoken only yesterday. _Wicked thing_ , Aziraphale had said, his voice brimming with fondness. Crowley had wondered if they might get around to phone sex sometime. He’d hung up with his heart feeling full and hopeful. He tried to hold on to that.

“He didn’t _leave_ before. Something _happened_ to him. And this is—it’s just a temporary thing,” he said, watching as Harriet looked at him with pity. “Just needed some space, he said.”

“And are you OK with that?” Harriet said finally. “What if he _never_ tells you what _happened_?”

Crowley did not like her skepticism. “Well, it’s his decision,” Crowley said, affecting mildness along with his lilt. “He needs what he needs, you know? To recover.”

“But you trust him _that much_. He just _disappears_ and it’s OK because you just _trust_ him?”

Crowley sighed. “You really don’t understand the situation,” he said, his teeth gritted. He likes Harriet, appreciates what she’s trying to do even. But she’s wrong and he can’t figure out how to get her to stop going down this road. How was he supposed to explain it to a human?

“Well, it doesn’t sound like _you_ do either!” Harriet sighs, takes a drink of her mimosa before starting again. “I think he’s not the only one who gets to make decisions. You’re right, he doesn’t have to tell you. But you don’t have to just take whatever scraps he offers. It’s like what I said to Tad. I said, I am your _wife_ , and I am sick and tired of sitting back and playing second fucking fiddle to whoever the goddamned president of the United States is. Especially now. And, well, he got it. Things are much better now. We came home. We spend time together. He spends time with Warlock. I really wasn’t sure what he’d decide, though. But I decided for myself that I had had enough. You know?”

Crowley stared at the kitchen cabinets, speared a piece of arugula and ate it a bit aggressively. He forced himself not to show his teeth. “It’s _not_ like that, actually,” he said, picking out the words in a careful Scottish lilt. “I’m willing to wait for him to feel ready to talk. I think he will. And if he doesn’t, well, I trust him. I’m not going anywhere.” We’ve been...together a long time. Well, really only a few years. But not like that. I mean...we’ve known each other forever. He’s the only—it’s like...I have just definitely _not_ had enough.”

Harriet nods, frowning slightly. Crowley opens his mouth to tell her he doesn’t want to discuss it anymore. But she sighs and smiles, waving a hand as if trying to clear the air.

“I’m sure we could get your flight changed, if you wanted to stay a little longer,” she said. “Warlock’s got a school trip next week. They need extra chaperones. How familiar is an Scottish lass like you with the legislative process of the Commonwealth of Virginia?”

“Ah, you make it sound ever so tempting,” Crowley drawled. But it was. He had nothing better to do.

* * *

After a day or so of wallowing, Crowley resumes a version of the life he’d had before Warlock. He cleans and remodels the flat. Watches a lot of TV and movies (in his room now, not the living room). Reads books. Takes long drives through the countryside in his Bentley. Even takes a few walks in the freezing park because it’s OK to think of Aziraphale sometimes now that he knows he’s not gone forever, and this silence will be over soon (It will. It has to.) He thinks of going to some art museums, checking out his favorite indoor gardens.

And when Aziraphale texts him ( _I was reading! I’d no idea whatsoever that so much time had passed. Just having a bit of lunch, but would it be all right if I rang you tonight? We could have a good long talk to make up for it. I am sorry, my dearest._ ), he lets out a breath he’d had no idea he was holding.

_Of course angel anytime you like_

* * *

Aziraphale starts along the path by the water, through the woods, full of mud and brambles and a crumbling stone wall. He hopes he’ll come out in the village, but instead he comes upon another cottage in a clearing. An old man is standing there, bent over in the garden out front. As Aziraphale approaches, he straightens, staring. The man seems to be wearing something vaguely paramilitary, but no uniform Aziraphale can identify. He leans on his shovel and narrows his eyes at Aziraphale, sweeping them over him disapprovingly.

“Good afternoon,” Aziraphale says, uncertain.

“Can I _help_ you?” the man says. His voice is cold, harsh, and strongly Scottish.

“Oh!” Aziraphale instinctively takes a step back toward the copse he’d emerged from. “I’m...I’m afraid I live just down...I’m looking for the village.”

“ _Village?_ ” the man says, as if this were a foreign concept. Then his face relaxes into a smile. It’s almost charming. “Ah, aye. Ye’ll be wanting the missus.”

“Oh, no. I—”

The door to the cottage opens, and a woman emerges. She’s short and blond, in a simple pencil skirt and sweater.

“Hello there, dear,” she calls. “What seems to be the trouble?”

Aziraphale tugs at his waistcoat. There’s mud all over his shoes, even on the hems of his trousers. He thinks of Crowley, who he’d ignored. And now here he stands in front of these humans, on their land, lost and covered in mud.

“I was...looking for the village,” he begins again, feeling extremely foolish.

“Not to worry,” she says. “I was just headed that way myself.”

Her smile is so indulgent, Aziraphale can’t help but relax and step closer. “Might I presume to accompany you?” he said. “Just to the, ah, the—” he looks down at his mobile. “The White Horse? For a bit of brunch.”

“Oh, aye,” the man says. “Is it the White Horse ye’ll be wanting?”

The woman smiles and winks at Aziraphale. “I’m Marjorie,” she says. “I run the kitchen there. And you are?”

Aziraphale considers for a moment. _Ezra_ , he could offer, as he has done so many times before. _Mr. Ezra Fell_. But this feels different somehow. That had always been not a lie, so much as a cover. Something he’d done to serve Heaven. But he doesn’t serve Heaven anymore. He is an angel who doesn’t serve _anyone_. _Selfish_ , he thinks, that this is what he should want, and isn’t that the same as defective? Is it any wonder he’s standing here, lost and trying his hardest to force away thoughts of the only being who really cared for him? He glances down again at the mud on his feet and sighs. It won’t do to dwell in that state, so he smiles, makes his eyes bright and focuses on her very tangible kindness. “I’m Aziraphale,” he says, finally. “Very nice to meet you.”

The man watches them with narrowed eyes, but Marjorie smiles so brightly, and grips his hand so sincerely that it doesn’t seem to matter. He tries not to feel a pang of sadness, of envy and loss, as she kisses the man’s cheek, and then loops her arm through Aziraphale’s, leading him further down the path.

“You were going the right direction,” she explains, as they approach another thicket. “Just, the path gives out just before the house. Starts back up again just beyond, you see, dear?”

He marvels at it, the way she seems so comfortable with him already. But he doesn’t question it. He’s so grateful it nearly hurts. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been, how much he’d needed _someone_.

As soon as they’re in the village, at the little pub, and Marjorie has gone off to open the kitchen, he takes out his mobile.

_I was reading! I’d no idea whatsoever that so much time had passed. Just having a bit of lunch, but would it be all right if I rang you tonight? We could have a good long talk to make up for it. I am sorry, my dearest._


	18. Two Outcast Men We Were (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a decision, and then, as is his way, acts on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last real chapter! An epilogue is soon to follow, probably by the weekend. If you've read this far, thank you so much for reading this long, angsty story. I hope it has been enjoyable.

After that first call, which lasts over an hour, they go back to quick check-ins. But after a while, the quick calls and texts turn into long calls and drawn out chats. Crowley misses him, yeah, but they talk. They can talk. And none of the awkward, stilted crap from New Year’s Eve. They talk about whatever they want, don’t worry so much about overstepping. Aziraphale calls as much as Crowley does, replies to his messages just as quickly. Photos of the town he’s in. The house. Thoughts about his books, his new friend, Marjorie, the sea, Crowley. It’s a pattern by now. It’s just that, well, _this_ is becoming a pattern. It’s just that it’s been _a while_. A _few months_ , specifically. Aziraphale had only even been back for about four before they’d separated in December. And now it’s nearly April. Crowley can’t end this detente, only Aziraphale can. He just doesn’t understand what’s taking him so long.

“So, ah, how are you feeling?” he tries, once, when they’ve been on the phone for nearly two hours.

“Oh, absolutely tip-top!” Aziraphale says, with a cheer that doesn’t come close to matching the even sobriety with which he’d been describing his afternoon walks, his new friend, one half of an older couple who’d moved out to the area just before he had arrived. Crowley’s heart sinks.

“Yeah?” he says, trying not to make the words sound too pointed, too needy, too accusing. “You getting a lot of thinking done? A lot of getting yourself sorted?”

There’s a too-long, regretful silence during which Crowley grits his teeth. Aziraphale makes a little noise in his throat and says, “I’m far from sorted, I’m afraid.”

Crowley winces. “It’s just, you seem good, when we talk, and I—”

“I am. I’m always so happy to speak with you. So happy to spend time...Crowley, is this hard for you? Talking to me like this?”

Crowley goes cold, his limbs feel stiff and uncomfortable, he doesn’t know how to move his face. Aziraphale wouldn’t make even this stop, would he? Scale back, maybe, that would be...not desirable, but fair, maybe. Crowley can’t imagine if they just _stopped_.

“No,” he says, finally, his voice choked and oddly insubstantial. “ ’S good. ’S always good, angel.”

“Splendid. Well, I suppose...I suppose I ought to be going then. Ah, next week?”

“Yeah. Yeah, next week. Angel?”

“Crowley?” Clipped, distant. But under that, pain. Crowley wants to hold him, kiss him, tell him it will be all right.

“Love you.”

“And I you, my dear.”

Aziraphale ends the call.

* * *

Aziraphale sets the phone down on the little kitchen table. He’d been invited to dinner with Marjorie. It’s what they do on Fridays, when Shadwell, her “man” as she calls him, heads down to the pub for drinks and cards, and she has time for “a bit of fun.” Lately, this has meant time for Aziraphale (though he gets the impression it may mean wildly different things at other times, anything from seances to some type of sex advice thing, if he’s not misreading terribly). He has the feeling he’s something of a project for her. He tries not to mind. She has such a good heart. But he’s not used to anyone taking him in hand this way. It’s hard to bear sometimes, the way she peers at him, like he’s a mystery she wants to solve for his own good.

“Mr. Shadwell and I moved out here at the end of August,” she’d said that first day, as the two of them had walked back along the trail at tea time. “We used to live in the same building in London. Two flats, I mean. And I thought, well, too old for London, both of us. And two can live as cheaply as one. They do say so, anyhow, though I don’t know as there’s much truth in it, but it is what they say.”

Aziraphale must have done something with his face because she frowned at him then, before asking, “And what brings you out our way, Mr. Aziraphale? Just fancied a change? Bit of sea air? Oh, but you do seem such a _London_ man at heart. ”

Her eyes had flickered rather pointedly down to his feet, where he had miracled away the mud while still sitting in the restaurant that morning. He’d been discreet about the miracle, he’d thought. He’d spent the rest of the day exploring the village, dropping back into her restaurant for lunch, and dithering about in the main square until tea time when she’d found him on her way home, standing in front of the garden supply shop, lost in thoughts of Crowley’s plants and gripping a short stack of library books slightly too hard as he tried and failed not to think at all.

He hadn’t answered her, not properly, and he’s paid for it ever since. Now, he’s supposed to head to her cottage, and it will be just the two of them, for another night of wine and gossip and prying. He’d born it pretty well until now. But then Crowley had asked him... _that_.

And wasn’t that the core of it? Crowley? And Aziraphale’s complete and utter failure to do anything in the way of putting himself back together? All he’d done was distract himself, and rather poorly. All he’d done was grow more and more attached to Crowley, all over again, convincing himself that it didn’t count, didn’t matter, because it was just once a week, and what did it matter if it was for a hour or two or three (or five) once a week? And what did it matter if they texted each other between calls, and what did it matter, if Crowley sent beautiful _selfies_ and Aziraphale sent gorgeous landscapes and secretly thrilled when Crowley asked if he wouldn’t show him his face.

It hasn’t stopped, the fears. The little nagging thoughts that the reason he can’t put Crowley off is because Crowley doesn’t want him to, because Crowley _wants_ him to suffer, because Crowley is a demon who does not and can not love him and can only sully and destroy anything he touches. He exaggerates the thoughts sometimes like that in his mind, making them more ridiculous, easier to dismiss.

He knows it isn’t true. He doesn’t believe them. He hides his pain from Crowley, as best he can. And it isn’t so difficult to do—he’s never happier than when they talk. It doesn’t stop the thoughts. Doesn’t stop the guilt over having them, over keeping Crowley at a distance.

But he hasn’t gotten any farther than that. At least, not with Crowley.

As for himself, well, the problem is that he tries not to think of himself. And now he’s supposedly off to spend time with Marjorie, who always makes him do just that. His hand hovers over his phone. He has half a mind to call her and cancel, to retire to his bedroom with cocoa and a book and several blankets and his mobile. But no, no, that won’t do. So he stands, slides the mobile into his pocket, returns to the bedroom to check his appearance. Straightens bowtie, waistcoat. Wonders if, perhaps, he might not look all right in a darker shade of blue, or a nice slate or silver gray? He isn’t exactly trying to look like an _angel_ anymore, after all. Perhaps with a scarf? Something to think about, maybe. Perhaps a trip to the tailor? He imagines sending the photos to Crowley and smiles. He can manage. Yes, this will do just fine. He takes a bottle of his wine with him when he leaves. Marjorie doesn’t always have the best feel for those kinds of things. Money, he reminds himself. She hasn’t had a lot of money. He does tend to forget about that.

By now he knows how to avoid the muddy patches, so he’s clean when he arrives, and Marjorie always insists on shoes off at the door anyhow. She takes the bottle of wine from him, and presses a kiss to his cheek, probably leaving a lipstick smear there. She’s different on her Fridays: her face decked with brightly colored makeup, and her sensible skirts and sweaters replaced with comfortable, floaty tea gowns (“It’s a negligee!”) Marjorie had shouted when he’d called it that once. “Or a muumuu, if that’s a bit too scandalous for you, Mr. Aziraphale.”)

Perhaps he should have wondered if there was a seduction attempt behind it; this does not occur to him until well after it would have become apparent. So he merely accepts it. He has come to understand that Marjorie had left a great deal behind her in London when she’d moved. He’s happy to indulge her as she does him. He tries to focus on that tonight.

As she brings the food from the kitchen into the little dining room, he licks his lips, places his napkin over his lap. It’s never anything particularly fancy, always something comforting and homey and British. Tonight there’s steak, roasted vegetables. He’s glad he’s brought a red, and stands now, to pour it.

“Does Shadwell eat at the pubs, then?” he says, “On Fridays, I mean?”

Marjorie purses her lips, eyes wide with amusement. “I’m sure I don’t know _what_ Mr. Shadwell gets up to on Fridays. I’ve got my time, and he’s got his. Cards and booze is all I know.”

“That’s very...high-minded of you.”

She laughs. “He’s not one to worry about,” she says. “Not exactly popular. No offense meant, but there it is.”

“No, I imagine not,” Aziraphale says. He sets a cup of wine down in front of her and takes his seat. But again, there must have been something in his face.

“What about your young man?” The question is not as innocuous as it might have been. Her voice is hesitant, but having spoken, she seems to relax into it, and the look in her face as she waits for his answer is hungry, cutting.

“Excuse me?”

“Your young man. Oh, you don’t think I’ve seen you on your mobile? Fancy, handsome thing he is, too.”

Aziraphale cannot move. He thinks of reaching for his wine, of playing this off as if it is nothing, but he can’t make himself restart. There’s something about Marjorie mentioning Crowley, something about the idea of talking about him, about _that_ , _here_. He’d thought he was safe.

Except, no, he hadn’t.

He sighs. “Ah, yes, well,” he says.

She winks. “Popular, is he?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “I daresay, he’s not. Oh, he could be. He’s so lovely and kind. But not many people...get to know him.”

She cuts into her steak, spears a small piece and eats it. “But you do?”

Aziraphale draws a shaky breath. He reaches for his wine. “I do, yes.”

“And so.”

Aziraphale takes a few sips of wine. She has not looked away from him. He sighs, dabs at his mouth with his napkin. “So?” he offers.

“ _So_ , where is he then? Why aren’t you together?”

Aziraphale looks down at his plate. He should be panicking now; or perhaps _should_ is not the right word, but he would expect to be. She’s hinted at this before, not about Crowley, but about why he’s here, and he’s deflected, gotten wry looks in response. But she’s always gone along with his subject changes, let him push against the borders of what he doesn’t want to think of. But tonight, to have gone this route, to speak directly of Crowley...he’s not panicking at all, instead, it seems like he’s just very, very present. That nothing outside the room properly exists, not the past, not the future, just this exact moment in time, and he’s _fine_ here; no one is here but Marjorie, and she’s wearing a purple nightdress and her eyes are decked with something that makes them glitter blue-green, and there’s food here, and it smells comforting, and there’s wine flowing through him, he can feel it, can smell it on his own breath.

So he opens his mouth, and he tells her, about Crowley. About himself.

* * *

He doesn’t tell her everything, of course. He tries to keep it surface level, tries to keep it bland, devoid of details. He leaves in the attack, leaves in the return to where he’d come from, leaves in the reunion (sort of). He leaves in what he’d realized: that he didn’t want to be a part of Heaven anymore, that he wasn’t sure what it made him. He doesn’t call it Heaven. He wonders if that matters. She seems to understand the substance of it. And strangely enough, now that he’s let her in a little, she doesn’t pry further.

“You poor thing,” she says, finally. “You know, you don’t seem the religious type. I never would have guessed it.”

Aziraphale’s face grows hot.

“There now, love. Nothing wrong with that,” she says. “It’s not for everyone. Your gentleman, he hardly looks it either.”

“No.”

Marjorie stands up, picks up both their plates, and turns back into the kitchen. “I’ll just set these in the oven a bit,” she says. She does so, then comes back to the table. She sits down and blinks at him, as if studying the overall impression of him, as if trying to find some meaning.

“But here’s what I still don’t understand,” she says. “Why are you letting this keep you apart from him? You know it’s not what you want. Even if they’re all too closed-minded to know a good thing…you can’t let _them_ decide for you. They’ve made it obvious, haven’t they? They don’t want the best thing for you. They just want you under their control.”

Aziraphale hesitates. “It’s not that. I know that.”

Marjorie frowns. “What, then, love?”

“I believed them,” Aziraphale says. “I listened to them. Entertained the idea. That, that perhaps he was...trying to corrupt me. Don’t you see what a betrayal that was? And they might have hurt him because of my carelessness. I should never have let on that anything was between us at all. Not to them!” Aziraphale buries his face in his hands, peering down at her tablecloth, red with a pattern of tiny yellow Celtic knots.

“They sound just awful,” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice that makes Aziraphale hate himself. He shouldn’t be burdening a human with this.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve nothing to do with them anymore. I didn’t...didn’t know what they were really like. I thought I was one of them, you know. I thought I wanted to be. For such a long time.”

“I’m not frightened, love. Just worried for you. Oh, you are a _complicated_ man, aren’t you?” She rests a hand over his. “Listen,” she says. “You must have been young. Sometimes it takes us time to learn things. That the people we trust just because we always have don’t deserve it. That’s a hard thing to learn. You didn’t betray him. It’s up to him if he wants to forgive you. And he must do. So you can let go of that. It’s not on you.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “He doesn’t.”

Marjorie frowns. “Oh, love. Then what are all these messages and photos and phone calls, hmm? What is all his posing and preening for, if he doesn’t want you?”

“He doesn’t know,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t know how to tell him. He knew what they were like. He tried to warn me. But you see, don’t you? I don’t deserve his regard. He looks at me like...like he thinks I’m perfect. He tries so hard to take care of me. And the whole time I was back with him I kept hearing them in my head, kept wondering, what if this wasn’t really love? It wasn’t fair to him. I couldn’t let him keep doing that. You see? I _let_ them make me doubt him. Because of what they said, I _let_ myself feel less just for being with him. That should have lifted me up. He would—he would hate that. How could I tell him?”

“Has he ever demanded that you love him perfectly, that you love him and never doubt him, never question him?”

“N—no, of course not.”

“Then why would you think it’s better that you not love him at all? Why would you reject yourself for him, when it’s so obvious he still wants you?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer.

“Write him a letter,” Marjorie says. “Pay him a visit. Invite him down.” She leans forward, whispers, “Just _tell_ him, love. It doesn’t matter so much how. Let _him_ decide what he wants. He won’t give you up. You were in an impossible position. I’ve no idea what it’s like...cults and all that. I’ve always been very free, if you take my meaning. But you were alone, and afraid, and kept against your will. It sounds to me like you were just trying to survive. The remarkable thing is that you held on the way you did. That’s the thing about it, love. None of us is perfect. Never really lost your faith in him. Not at bottom. And you came out whole.”

“ _Hardly_.”

“Oh, no, pet. I think you did. Just a bit worse for wear. Shaped differently perhaps, to what you were before. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale sighs, closes his eyes a moment. Then he smiles and reaches for his wine. “Perhaps we might resume our meal? I am sorry about the interruption.”

“That’s on me, I think,” Marjorie says. She studies him a moment. “Right, then,” she adds, before standing up and bustling off. Out of her sight, Aziraphale relaxes a little.

 _Cults_ , Aziraphale thinks. He’d been about to cut her off, then, about to object. But he realizes now that he can’t. He has no alternate explanation. And anyway, the analogy is surprisingly apt.

As Aziraphale walks home that evening, he thinks of something else she’d said that had stuck in his mind. _Let_ him _decide what he wants._ Hadn’t he said some version of that to Crowley once, a long time ago? Hadn’t he been frustrated with _Crowley_ for trying to make decisions for the both of them? For deciding on his own that Aziraphale deserved better than him? Because that’s what Aziraphale is doing, isn’t it? Day after day, slowly. Deciding by not doing anything. Because nothing had changed. But that isn’t true. Something has changed. He’d talked about it, had been able to talk about it. And that isn’t all. He’d been able to talk to Crowley a long time now without feeling guilty, had been able to think of him without feeling shame. If he hasn’t quite forgiven himself yet, well, that’s his own issue to reckon with, not Crowley’s. He’d told Crowley that there was nothing of punishment about this, but that isn’t true either. He’s been punishing himself.

He has not told Crowley what happened in Heaven, but he knows Crowley is waiting for it. He’d cried; Aziraphale had upset him, because of course he had. Crowley had saved the world for him, had raised a child with so much love it had changed his very nature, had saved his books, had loved him in his absence for more than a century, had tolerated all of Aziraphale’s missteps, and Aziraphale had still doubted him. Crowley did not doubt Aziraphale.

But he had done. Once, he’d thought Aziraphale meant to cast him out with holy water, destroy him if he would not go, even after Aziraphale had cradled his head in his lap, pressed his lips to that hot skin. Then he’d thought Aziraphale preferred a human to him. Later still, after they’d become lovers, he’d thought Aziraphale would grow tired of him, send him away, or see him for what he was (beautiful, loving, cherished thing) and not want him anymore. Even in Megiddo, he’d looked uncertain when he’d stepped toward Aziraphale, only clutching him when it became clear that Aziraphale was losing his footing and consciousness. He hadn’t been certain of Aziraphale’s motives. Hadn’t known that they weren’t suddenly enemies, now that war had come after their separation. And Aziraphale would not have cast him aside for any of it. Such a thing would never have occurred to him. Like Crowley, he had only sought to reassure. It had only been God—or perhaps Heaven, that had done that, that would do that. Aziraphale is not God. Neither is Crowley. He has known Crowley for six thousand years, has bared his body and mind to him and been allowed even more in return. Crowley had shown Aziraphale his wings, had let him touch them. _Good lord_ , he thinks. _What more could I want? How could there be any greater foundation for trust?_ Aziraphale is not sure one has ever existed in or out of all time. His heart surges with it; how could he have this love, how could he deserve it? _Doesn’t matter_ , Crowley had said. And isn’t that the whole of it? Isn’t that everything?

He sends Crowley a message that night, as he sits at his table and finishes off the wine.

_Crowley, I want to see you. I think, at this point, this separation is doing us more harm than good. Marjorie helped me to see that. I need to be honest with you._

Aziraphale deletes that last sentence. Sends.

_There are some things we should discuss. I’m dreadfully sorry I didn’t come to my senses sooner. I could come to your flat if you like? Just name the day._

He stands. Takes a few deep breaths, and tries to put it out of his mind. It’s late, that’s why Crowley hasn’t responded. He’s probably sleeping. That’s all. Aziraphale’s mind works without permission: what if Crowley saw it and miracled himself here? It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. To see him, to be close to him, after these months away. But then to see his face as he tells him about Heaven, about his own foolishness at believing in its goodness even as they worked to turn Aziraphale against Crowley. What if Crowley doesn’t understand? What if he thinks Aziraphale is weak? Or if he starts to see Aziraphale the way they had seen him, as something defective and soiled? And would that hurt Crowley? Would he see their relationship that way, too? See himself as unworthy, blame himself? What if he stops trusting Aziraphale? Or doesn’t want them to be together, to share their lives anymore? What if he doesn’t want them to make love?

Crowley does not respond. He is only sleeping, Aziraphale tells himself, before starting out into the night.

A drunken nighttime hike along soft chalk cliffs is, perhaps, not the wisest thing for an angel who cannot afford to be discorporated, but Aziraphale feels reckless. (He keeps well away from the edge, too.) The churning seawater seems to beckon to him, to make him feel that he is falling.

He’d realized a long time ago that he wasn’t afraid of Crowley, didn’t believe that Crowley meant him any harm. The way he’d felt when Crowley walked away from him after what he’d said that terrible night had been proof enough that he’d never really believed it. His mind was just fond of suggesting it to him, and he’d started to think that because of that, he wasn’t worthy of Crowley, he didn’t trust him enough. But no one’s trust was perfect. Not completely. Not when it was real and freely given. But he was still afraid to let himself be with Crowley because he’d messed up so terribly. He tries not to think of that night he’d accused Crowley of pretending. He hadn’t meant it. It hadn’t been about Crowley. It had been about himself. He knows that now. But how could he be sure it wouldn’t ever happen again? How could he guarantee that he would never hurt him again? He can’t. But keeping him at a distance like this is hurting him too. Better to let him go entirely. And that will never happen. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s all right not to be completely sure. If you can lose trust in someone else in a moment of weakness, surely the same principle applies to oneself. It has been some time now since Aziraphale felt curled in on himself, since he wanted to be small enough to remain unseen. A long time since the thought of Crowley himself filled him with paralysis and conflict born out of warring love and uncertainty. Even tonight, when Marjorie had mentioned him, Aziraphale had expected more distress than he’d had. Had expected to feel torn and raw at having him brought to the surface. Instead, he’d felt oddly calm at the thought of him, warm and pleased that it was so obvious what was between them when he’d never said. He wants to talk about Crowley with Marjorie, he thinks. To tell her about the way he kept his shop up for him, how he’d courted him so carefully, how they’d always felt freest when they were together, how Crowley always looked so sleek and dangerous but had the kindest heart, the gentlest touch Aziraphale had ever encountered. All of that is true. And it does mean he’s done what he came here to do. So why is he still so afraid?

Perhaps he’s just worried things won’t hold up when they’re no longer so theoretical. Perhaps it’s like the sea—the way his mind runs toward it, the idea that it would be such a quick, easy thing to simply drop over the edge, slip beneath the surface of the water, let it fill his lungs. It would be just as easy to hurt Crowley, to dismiss him. All he needs are a few words.

The thoughts don’t make it real. They’re not things he wants. The fear of it doesn’t mean it will happen.

There’s a gust of wind then, so strong that Aziraphale has to fight it a little, to remain upright. It exhilarates him, wakes him up. He has no desire to take his chances with the wind and the cliffs and the ocean. He heads back to the cottage. He has some thinking to do.

He won’t pretend that a part of him hadn’t hoped he’d find Crowley there. But he’s not. The mobile is still on the table, where he’d left it, his message unanswered. Crowley is sleeping, only sleeping.

Aziraphale heads to the bedroom. He will sleep tonight too, but only after he has set his thoughts down on paper. If he is going to do this, he might as well do it properly.

* * *

Crowley has not switched his mobile to silent since Aziraphale has been away, has not turned it off, or walked more than a few feet away from it. (It has always known better than to let the battery die.) He leaves it on in galleries, gardens, the cinema, had left it on the whole of both flights to and from America. He’d stood up to take Aziraphale’s calls, even in the middle of a Marvel movie, with people shouting at him to sit down and shut up; he’d gotten out of the shower still covered in soap to answer a text. (Aziraphale had liked that selfie.)

So far, Aziraphale had not woken him up.

It can be difficult to wake Crowley, if he does not want to be woken.

And he is sleeping deeply, trying not to think of the pain he’d heard in Aziraphale’s voice that evening. But when his phone chimes, he sits up, taps the screen.

Aziraphale wants to see him. Well. Well, then. Crowley sighs, stands up, staggers back to sitting on the bed. He looks up, at the ceiling, at nothing, really. He gulps a few times, blinking furiously. He’s not trying not to cry. Crowley snaps his fingers, checks his reflection. He waters his plants, shouts at them a bit, just in case, even though he hasn’t done that for a long time now. Then he puts on his glasses and walks down the stairs, shaking slightly.

The Bentley has already started, so he simply slips in behind the wheel, pulls out into the nighttime traffic. He had not asked Aziraphale for an address, or even the exact name of the village. Crowley will find him the way he always does. He does not know exactly where he is going, but he will be there soon.

It’s not until Crowley has come upon a little village that thrums with the sense of Aziraphale that Crowley realizes he hadn’t actually told Aziraphale he was coming, or arranged to meet him, or anything of that nature. He doesn’t even know exactly where to go, now he’s here. He doesn’t really think that he could just turn up at Aziraphale’s house in the early morning, unexpectedly, not under these circumstances. Aziraphale would want something more measured, surely, something controlled. And once again Crowley has lost all sight of moderation where he’s concerned.

It’s still dark, but Crowley can see that the village is not unlike the ones he’d traipsed through when he’d gotten back from the states, and it’s not hard to locate the little coffeeshop/bakery where he can get his coffee confection and this time, a pastry for Aziraphale. Of course it’s not yet open, so he parks his car across from it and takes out his phone. Only then does he see that there’d been a second message. But then, Aziraphale isn’t expecting him at all. He didn’t intend for Crowley to come here. Crowley growls, buries his head against the steering wheel and sighs. _What does that even mean, some things to discuss? No, no, no._

Crowley doesn’t know what to do. Should he turn around then, drive back to London and let Aziraphale come to him there? Should he find a room somewhere around here, something with flowered curtains and sachets of rose petals in the drawers, and then let Aziraphale know he was here? Or would Aziraphale be happy to see him if he just turned up?

He stews and frets so long that people start to come out, ready to start their days. A man with pale pink hair and tightly fitted trousers unlocks the door to the coffeeshop and disappears inside without flipping the sign on the door to _open_. How long would it be then, Crowley wondered, before it did open properly? Did Aziraphale come into the village in the mornings? He shrugs out a quick miracle to dispel the looks he gets as the shop owners come into the square. His car isn’t exactly subtle, doesn’t exactly match the tiny hatchback Peugeots and Citroens that are increasingly dotting the lane.

Eventually the shop opens, and even though Crowley hasn’t decided yet about whether it would be better to drive back to London, or to text Aziraphale, or turn up unannounced, he gets out, stalks across the street and purchases brioche along with his triple chocolate mocha whip. The good thing about brioche, he tells himself, as he heads back to the Bentley, is that he can eat it himself if need be. Not like those oozing pastries Aziraphale likes, or anything with _layers_ that always seem too fiddly to bother with.

There are birds singing. _Bollocks_ , this is quite the place the angel had chosen. Crowley opens the door to his car, already thinking of the miracle he will use to keep the interior silent so he can think.

“Yoohoo!” There is a woman bearing down on him, an elderly woman with dyed blond hair and a tight pencil skirt and sweater with a sequined, glittery flower bauble pinned to the chest. “Yoohoo!” she repeats. “Are you Mr. Crowley?”

“What the devil?”

She smiles. The lines by her sharp eyes crinkle into something warm and indulgent. If he squints, he can see that she’s wearing pale pink eyeshadow, faintly iridescent. Her lipstick, also pale pink, has a similar glittery sheen.

“Marjorie Potts?” he asks.

“Right you are, love. You’ll be looking for Mr. Aziraphale, then? Oh, he does work fast. It was just last night, it was. I said—”

“Yeah. Right, so...what’s um, the address? Exactly?”

She looks down at the car. “Oh, I reckon I could give you directions, love,” she says, suggestively. Crowley sighs. She’ll probably get glitter all over the seat, and it is _murder_ to get out of _anywhere_. He waves her in. She watches him, impatiently as he secures his drink, starts the car, then slides out his mobile. He ought to give Aziraphale some kind of heads up. But there’s really no way to do that, now, is there? Not really.

 _I’m here,_ he types, then glares at Marjorie before he pulls out into the lane.

She directs him down a narrow, wooded road, round a bend, and up to a little cottage. There was nothing to the directions; she could have easily told him to keep straight, take a right, first house you see.

“Off you go, then, love,” she says, and Crowley scowls, then looks down at his mobile and blanches. No answer. He’s going to have to take his chances then. “Whatever’s the matter, then?”

Crowley shakes his head, throws open the door, and stalks up to the house. He knocks too loud, too hard, like an angry madman, and then he bites his lips (both of them) and turns his face away from the door.

There are no footsteps from inside the house, no sounds, nothing. He can feel Aziraphale nearby. The car door opens behind him, and he turns.

“What? Not there?” says Marjorie. “Isn’t he expecting you?”

Crowley tries to respond to her. “W—I—he just said he wanted to talk.”

“Oh, you poor dear. Wait right here.”

Crowley, of course, does not, and follows her as she starts off on the path leading behind the house, toward the cliffs. It’s not a minute before Aziraphale comes into view, the ocean air ruffling his hair and his light overcoat. He looks...he looks good—dreamy, solid, the sight of him there, walking along peacefully catapulting Crowley back to the fourteenth century, to Aziraphale taking his walks when he’d lived at the monastery, which in turn had always reminded him of that first glimpse of him he’d gotten when he’d washed up on the riverbank, and had known then that he would be all right.

“Cooee, Mr. Aziraphale! Looky who’s turned up!” Crowley wants to shout at her, drive her away, but of course he doesn’t. Instead, he freezes on the spot. Horrible woman, he thinks. _Why_ is it Aziraphale likes her?

Aziraphale turns. God, he’d been so stupid to come here like this. Aziraphale is the one calling the shots. He’s the one who gets to decide when this is over, not Crowley. Crowley opens his mouth, “Sorry—” he starts.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale tilts his head slightly, and, oh, yes, he’s surprised, but he’s _happy_. He looks damned near exhilarated and Crowley forgets all his words at the idea that he’s had this effect on the angel. Aziraphale starts toward him, not running, just walking a little quicker, his hands reaching for Crowley before he’s even there, and Crowley leaps forward and grabs him, pulls him into an embrace, his eyes closing so all he can take in is the feel of him, his body warm and soft and strong, and his breath against Crowley’s neck, and his hair against Crowley’s face, and the ocean air buoying them up.

“Angel,” he whispers. “I came. Is it OK I came? I just...I tried to text. Didn’t see your second message. I just...I..”

“Oh, Crowley, my dearest. I’m so happy you’re here,” Aziraphale says. He draws back, presses a hand to Crowley’s face. “Oh, I’m so glad. When you didn’t reply, I thought perhaps I’d waited too long, pushed you too far.”

“No, no. You could never. I just didn’t wait, got in my car as soon as I saw it. Didn’t wait. Didn’t want to...to wait.”

Crowley blinks because he’s not going to cry. Aziraphale takes his hand and leads him back toward the house, and he gulps and blinks, the angel’s hand soft in his, holding it with just the right amount of pressure. Marjorie, he notices, is gone. _Bless that woman_ , he thinks. _In the good way._

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t start any hard conversations, not right away. Crowley had been expecting it, the way he’d solemnly led Crowley up to the house even after that excited greeting, but instead, Aziraphale shows him around the cottage, asks if he can stay, then shows him where he can put his things. Crowley doesn’t have any things.

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale says. “You darling thing,” and kisses him on the cheek. Crowley doesn’t let him step away, but grabs on again and holds him. Aziraphale smells different. He’s got a new cologne: lavender and bergamot and something dark and woody.

“You wanted to talk,” he says, low and in Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale pulls back.

“Yes. Later, I think. If that’s all right. If you can stay a bit.”

“I’ll stay as long as you want. How’d you get this place, anyway?”

Aziraphale blushes. “Well, it was originally a two-week rental. I may have...extended my stay.”

“With a miracle.”

Aziraphale does not answer. Crowley grins at him conspiratorially and Aziraphale looks briefly flustered. “Well,” Aziraphale says, finally. “Shall we...have some brunch? Perhaps have a look around the village?”

Crowley snaps his fingers to get the brioche from the car and hands it to him; he watches his face melt into a smile and follows him into the kitchen to watch him a little more. Aziraphale eats the brioche carefully with his fingers. Crowley wants to sink his own fingers into Aziraphale’s mouth, and other places, wants to kiss the crumbs and butter away from his face and push away all those _clothes_ to get at the soft skin and downy hair beneath. He still has not stopped wearing waistcoats, bowties. Crowley wonders if he ever will.

He doesn’t push for anything, just lets Aziraphale lead him around the village, introduce him here and there. There’s a picnic lunch on their cliff later, since the day is so warm, and the next afternoon they meet Marjorie’s awful...husband (partner?) when he comes to shout with another crotchety old man over drinks at the White Horse.

“I’ve never really _asked_ if they were properly married,” Aziraphale tells Crowley, as they walk back through the woods.

“Properly?” Crowley says. A ridiculous notion pops into his head, he and Aziraphale standing on the cliffs while some human declares them one in the eyes of God, and he grins. “ _Properly?_ ”

Aziraphale blushes. “You know what I mean.”

Crowley kisses him. Stops them on the trail and pushes him up against a tree. He’s careful, doesn’t want to really startle him, rush him. The night before, they’d lain together in bed, Aziraphale’s arms around him, stroking his hair until he’d fallen asleep. Crowley didn’t want them to go too fast this time, and he’d determined to let Aziraphale set the pace. So now, in the woods, he hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s hands to move from his back to his waist, pulling up his shirt and sliding beneath, making their way to his stomach, dipping lower to undo his belt, as Aziraphale breaks the kiss to move his lips to Crowley’s neck, licking and sucking, tiny, breathy moans escaping him. Crowley tries to find words, tries to think what it is he’d meant to be doing.

“I missed you,” Aziraphale whispers, his fingers finding the edge of the patch of bright hair just beneath the waist of Crowley’s trousers. “I thought of you all the time. At first I couldn’t think of anything else.”

The words are enough to ground Crowley, to ease him back into his mind. He heaves a huge sigh that turns into a groan and pulls Aziraphale against him. It’s more of a hug than a passionate embrace, and he holds him there until they’re both steadier, until Crowley can speak again. “I missed you too, angel. But I don’t think we’d better do this out here, yeah?”

* * *

“Dear God,” Aziraphale whispers, as they straighten up. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Might have had something to do with me throwing you against a tree,” Crowley says. He smiles. Aziraphale studies him, the self-deprecating tilt of his mouth, the coat still partly rucked up in the back. Crowley returns his belt to its usual state. There’s nothing at all about him that suggests any sort of displeasure with Aziraphale. No impatience, no aggression, no judgment. Aziraphale had stopped because Crowley wanted them to stop, and perhaps because he wanted to give Crowley the chance to hear what he’d finally decided to say first, but he would have had Crowley right here in the woods if he had not objected. They walk slowly back to the house. Crowley takes his hand, stroking over it with his thumb. Aziraphale remembers the first time he’d done it, in France. How he’d let the people look, unashamed, unafraid.

“Crowley,” he says, his voice shaking.

“Hm?”

“Let’s talk tonight. While there’s still time.”

“What do you mean while there’s still time?”

“It’s not too late, I mean. If you wanted…” Aziraphale pauses. He’d meant that Crowley could still leave, if he wanted, after he heard what Aziraphale had to say. He could still be back in London in time to have a good night’s rest. Crowley wouldn’t like to hear him say that, though. He’d insist that he wouldn’t, without even knowing, really. “I mean while it’s not too late. There’s still the rest of the evening,” Aziraphale says, forcing a smile. He unlocks the door and lets them inside, putting on a light. “It’s nearly time for dinner, after all,” he says brightly.

It doesn’t fool Crowley. He takes Aziraphale’s hand and looks at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go ahead and talk then. Whatever you like. Kitchen? Living room? Bedroom?”

“Living room,” Aziraphale says, thinking of the journal where he’d written out what to say to Crowley. Where he’d written out everything that had happened in Heaven, objectively, no commentary. “I think we’ll be most comfortable there.”

* * *

He doesn’t sit on the couch. Instead, he takes a seat at the little side table where he’d obviously been doing something involving figuring or writing before Crowley had arrived. Now the book and the little pages of notes are stacked up in one corner, and he turns the chair to face Crowley, pinching his lips. Crowley wishes he’d sat on the couch so he could hold him, but there must be a reason he hadn’t. So he doesn’t offer, doesn’t suggest it. He just waits as Aziraphale reaches for the little book and opens it.

“Angel?”

“It’s a journal, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I’d like to...to read you some things I wrote down the other day. Some things I want you to know. After I’m done, we can...we can talk about it if you like.”

Crowley nods. Aziraphale draws a shaky breath and begins. “When I arrived in Heaven...”

Crowley opens his mouth, surprised, then he closes it again, and waits.

Crowley had known it would be horrible. But there were things he could not have anticipated. There was invasiveness, self-righteousness, the way they’d turned Aziraphale’s indignation into guilt, the way they’d painted the love between them as something inherently tainted and blasphemous, even the threats they’d made to ensure that Hell punished Crowley if Aziraphale was so sure that that love had been what he said—none of that shocked him. What he hadn’t expected to hear about was Aziraphale being kept separate that way, isolated from the Host even as they wouldn’t let him go ( _Prison,_ Harriet had asked him. She’d been right, in a way, then.) What he hadn’t expected was the beating, the degradation it had taken to get Aziraphale to entertain the possibility that his life on Earth, his life with Crowley, had not been what it had seemed to him. He had not expected that kind of fire, that kind of fortitude and loyalty. He might not have known it was possible. He had not expected the way Aziraphale could not meet his eyes, as if he still had something to be ashamed of, or the way he apologized, setting the book down and whispering for Crowley to forgive him, as if there was anything at all that needed to be forgiven. Crowley shook his head, forcing back anger and tears because he couldn’t _do_ that right now, couldn’t let himself rage and grieve, not when Aziraphale needed him to just be here, to just listen. Aziraphale looked away from him then, and he realized that he might have misunderstood, might have thought he meant he didn’t forgive him, so he stood up and went to him, even though he’d sworn not to interrupt. He took his hand and said, “Look at me, angel,” and Aziraphale did, without having to be coaxed, and it was brave, so brave. So Crowley let his own tears fall as he said, “It wasn’t your fault, what they did to you. They tortured you, imprisoned you. There was _nothing_ you could have said or done differently to make it all right with them. You have to see how strong you were. I can see that. It’s all I see. So brave and strong. I love you. Love you so much, angel. I don’t forgive you, because there’s nothing I need to forgive.”

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment, and then he falls forward onto Crowley’s shoulders and sobs.

* * *

But he’s not finished. And when Aziraphale finally reaches again for his book and reads, there’s something else there that Aziraphale had not expected. Anger. White-hot, needling, prickling. The words Crowley had used had cast in a new light things that had been slowly, slowly becoming clearer.

When he recounts what had happened as Heaven prepared for Armageddon, the way he’d finally found his own resolution not in righteousness, but in feeling and desperation for something other than what he knew could _not_ be righteous, he’s practically fuming. All of this, this pain, this suffering for him and Crowley. And what had Heaven accomplished with it? And he could feel Her love, yes, but where _was_ She? Why didn’t She stop any of it?

Crowley has not moved from where he sits by Aziraphale’s feet. His head rests on Aziraphale’s lap. He’d cried when Aziraphale told him about the incident at the battle training, when Aziraphale told him about how they had meant to send him to fight without a weapon. Aziraphale had seen his jaw clench, had felt his body stiffen. He is not wearing his glasses, and if Aziraphale looked him in the face, he knows that he would find a serpent’s yellow gaze to meet his own. But Crowley has not wavered in his support. He has not broken, which is to say Aziraphale has not broken him.

When Aziraphale is done speaking, they sit in silence for a long while. Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s hair again, letting his fingers slide between the long, silky strands. And Crowley lets him. How is it, he wonders, that the most beautiful thing to him, the thing he cherishes most in all of God’s creation, should be a demon? And if Crowley is the thing Aziraphale cherishes most, then what should it matter at all that he is a demon? It is only one more trait, like any other.

Crowley gulps. “Angel,” he says. “Would you...let me see your wings?”

Aziraphale hesitates only a moment, only because it has been so long, before letting them crash into the space around them. They’re large and he hasn’t seen them for years, since before he’d discorporated even, and they’re not what they once had been. Still white, still functional, but it’s obvious no one has touched them for centuries, not even Aziraphale. Crowley stares while Aziraphale waits, nervous.

“I tend to...put them out of mind,” Aziraphale whispers as Crowley looks up at them. “I’m not as good as you are at grooming them on my own. I tend to miss spots. It hasn’t really been...a priority for a few centuries now.”

“Beautiful,” Crowley whispers. “Can I touch them? Can I—Aziraphale? I want to, to make you that promise now.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Well,” he says. “I suppose you have all you need now to make an informed decision.”

Crowley rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Upstairs,” Crowley suggests, his eyes sweeping over the mess Aziraphale’s wings have made of the couch cushions and the pile of notes on the little table.

“Yes, yes, I think...upstairs would be best,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “So, you’ll stay tonight, then?”

“I’ll stay with you forever,” Crowley says. “You know I will.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “And I with you, my dearest. Nothing else makes any sense at all, I’m afraid.”

As they stand, Crowley reaches out and touches his hand to the alula, the crest of Aziraphale’s wing, where Aziraphale has never been able to reach, himself. Aziraphale stops, closing his eyes. He feels the sensation in his very being. He does not deserve this, no. It’s not possible to deserve this. But he has it, and it is real, and he will never let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: negative self-talk, intrusive thoughts, discussions of violence, psychological abuse and gaslighting, mention of passive suicidal ideation (but not with any intention behind it).
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.


	19. Vita Nuova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We pick up with Aziraphale some 20 years later and learn what happened after the events of the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stood by the unvintageable sea  
> Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,  
> The long red fires of the dying day  
> Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;  
> And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:  
> “Alas!” I cried, “my life is full of pain,  
> And who can garner fruit or golden grain,  
> From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!”  
> My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw  
> Nathless I threw them as my final cast  
> Into the sea, and waited for the end.  
> When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw  
> The argent splendour of white limbs ascend,  
> And in that joy forgot my tortured past.
> 
> —“Vita Nuova” by Oscar Wilde

More than twenty years later, Aziraphale still thinks of that day. Of the day when Crowley had looked at him and seen the depth of his scars, scars so deep they touched even the love between them, and said, _yes I want you, I want this love_. He thinks of the feel of Crowley’s hands in his wings for the first time, his touch gentler, more reverent than Aziraphale could have imagined. He thinks of the way Crowley held him after his first wing grooming for thousands of years as they’d both cried and whispered their love over and over again. He thinks of the way he’d drawn strength from Crowley’s love, and how that had fortified the love in turn.

He does not think, as he had in the days immediately after that, of the understanding that had blossomed in his mind. Heaven, he came to understand, had never intended to stop punishing him. They would have sent him to his death at Armageddon—there had never really been a chance that he would survive the battle, weaponless. Heaven had never intended to harm Crowley because of his love for Aziraphale. Crowley had never even been questioned. Heaven had never reported anything to Hell. They hadn’t cared whether Crowley’s love was real or whether his goodness had upset the balance. They hadn’t cared whether he’d set out to hurt Aziraphale, either. They’d only wanted to control Aziraphale, had only wanted him to fall in line, and would have said anything to get him to do so. He’d raged for days, sparing Crowley as much as he could by taking long walks along the cliffs each afternoon, by stretching his freshly groomed wings and flying.

Now, next to him, Crowley’s hand tightens on his. Aziraphale looks down at their hands twined together, his own adorned with a black serpent-shaped ring rather than the heavenly signet he’d worn for so long.

It has been a long time since Aziraphale doubted him, even for a moment. And after a particularly beautiful experience they’d shared some ten years ago now, it’s no longer possible.

Humans, though, don’t have the luxury of being able to join their very beings the way he and Crowley can, and do, now. They must have faith in themselves and each other and in the world itself. And how remarkable it is, Aziraphale thinks, that they do.

In the dim glow of tiny lights strung over the gazebo where they stand, Anathema takes Newt’s hand. They kiss, and they are husband and wife. It had been more than twenty years since she’d returned to the States, where, disowned by her family, she’d attended graduate school, met a woman named Sarah Young, and come back with her to England. Their relationship had ended after a decade, after two children. Anathema had met Newt again two years ago at an essential oils and crystal shop in Tadfield, where his online magazine had sent him to investigate some oddity at the American airbase. _Ineffable_ , Aziraphale thinks. God didn’t have a monopoly on it at all.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have combed so recklessly through her second manuscript—he’d finally done so the week before, in anticipation of a moment with Anathema at her wedding. Years ago, he’d been afraid of what Agnes might say of him, of Crowley. But as usual where the demon was concerned, there was nothing Aziraphale needed to fear. Agnes had done them the very great courtesy of saying nothing at all about them. Nothing at all about Anathema, either, she would be pleased to know. Or any of her descendants. At least not anything he could decipher, and Aziraphale did think he was something of a reliable interpreter of prophecy.

It was prophecy, after all, that had led him to believe it might not be such a dangerous thing to open himself to Crowley. An old book, something he’d had since he left that monastery all those years ago, something that spoke of an angel, not Aziraphale, and a demon, not Crowley. Something that spoke of their fibers, if you will, their essence, of how they’d been woven the same way, and filled in with different wefts. Something that felt like truth.

The first time they had tried it, they hadn’t touched, aside from their corporeal forms. Hands pressed together, they’d stood on the cliffs outside of the cottage where they’d stayed all those years ago, and looked inside of each other. It was months after Crowley had come to the cottage, and shortly after that, Aziraphale had packed up his things (Crowley still didn’t have much), and they had returned to London together. Aziraphale had visited the tailor again, then. He’d gone alone this time, and Crowley had been surprised when the clothing was delivered: suits and sweaters in brown and navy and slate gray. A new tartan for his ties and scarf, with shades of black and red against the cream.

Crowley still has his flat, which they have made homey, and Aziraphale still has his bookshop, the backroom and the tiny flat on the second level where sometimes they sleep and make love. It was there where they’d tried it, the second time, their bodies already joined together. Aziraphale had done his research, and he’d whispered to Crowley: _now_ , and Crowley knew what he meant, because they’d talked about it, they’d agreed. So they opened to each other, flesh becoming irrelevant even as its ecstasy lingered, making them both so expansive they could not have held themselves separate if they had tried.

Crowley had expected more of a contrast, he’d said later. Had worried, if we are to speak in terms of fabric, that it might be like scraping coarse denim against the finest chiffon. Aziraphale had known, though, that Crowley was no coarse denim, that he himself was no fine and airy chiffon.

In the end, it had felt more like they were silk and lace. The gaps Crowley had worried over did not seem so much like flaws as deliberately arranged embellishments; a stylistic choice. His essence wears them well, as his corporation does with fashion. And Aziraphale’s essence, perhaps, has had some of its topography softened by circumstances he’d rather not have experienced, but the end result, Crowley tells him later, had been something smooth and soft, but strong, versatile, sophisticated. They both felt that the most startling aspect of it was their similarity, the concordant ease with which they flowed together.

When they’d moved their awareness back into their bodies, Aziraphale watched Crowley closely, the long lines of his body, his muscles tightened, the tendons standing out in taut relief as he came. That this was his, that this miraculous creature loved him, was the greatest wonder of them all.

It’s a nighttime wedding, of course. Anathema had said the full moon was important. As the guests stand and mill, Anathema makes her way toward them, takes his hand, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Aziraphale and Anathema have remained in touch over the years, and tonight Aziraphale tells her he’s read the prophecies, he tells her she is unnamed. She laughs, her joy filling him up with a light he’d once thought he’d lost.

He will not lose it, he knows now. Humans are transient, their deaths are constant, but so is _life_ , the reality of it, the fabric of every moment. He’s never had a human in his life as long as Anathema. Marjorie had died two years ago now, having outlived her man Shadwell by nearly a decade. He and Crowley had grown close to her in the months they’d lived in the cottage by the sea, and had visited her frequently. When Shadwell had passed away, they’d made sure she was taken care of in her old age, had made sure it was as easy as it could be. At the end, Aziraphale was sure she’d known what they were without anyone having to say. Anathema, though, is still young; it has been and will be a privilege to know her for so much of her life.

Crowley still sees Warlock. Aziraphale has met the Dowlings by now, and it’s a careful, tricky thing he’s done (since Crowley won’t), of making the two of them seem to have aged the right amount, without doing anything at all exactly, except a careful flicker in the humans’ minds. Crowley is grateful for it; he tells Aziraphale every time they see them. _I’d have had to stop seeing them_ , he says. _Angel, you give me everything._

Aziraphale accepts the praise. He accepts everything good the world has to offer him. He wishes Anathema well and stands with the other humans—Newt’s mother, Anathema’s children, her ex-wife, Sarah and her brother and sister-in-law, Adam and Pepper, to watch as she and Newt get into his tiny, streamered car, laughing and kissing, and drive away, the children running after it until it’s going too fast and they can’t anymore.

“They have such short times on Earth,” he says, quietly. “And so much love.”

“It’s lucky for us,” Crowley says, kissing his forehead, his lips; “We have infinite amounts of both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.” —from _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ by Oscar Wilde
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta, and thank you all for reading! You are all wonderful and I treasure your comments, so please don't hesitate to let me know if you enjoyed this long tale of woe. I have plans for another!
> 
> Thanks again to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi and follow me on tumblr [@leilakalomi](https://leilakalomi.tumblr.com).


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